What Happened Before
by MoonMargaret
Summary: Magic is legal and, just as it seemed that a time of peace was to settle in Camelot, Arthur receives a mysterious summons that he cannot refuse. Leaving Camelot in the care of his queen and his knights, he and Merlin leave, facing foes old and new.
1. Prologue A Waiting Game

**Disclaimer: I do not own **_**Merlin.**_

She waited.

Waiting didn't usually bother her. She'd been in hiding for so long that she almost could not remember her life before. Had she ever truly had one? She just remembered…waiting. Long periods of waiting with short and intense bursts of action that left her exhilarated and alive and _awake_ and enough to keep her from going insane from the waiting as it all started over again. She had to be patient. Impatience led to recklessness and recklessness led to death and defeat. She'd learned _that_ lesson the hard way. Irresponsibility was unacceptable to the hunted.

So she waited and she kept waiting, as she always did.

Although it _was_ worse this time, and she thought that she knew why. She'd sent off her letter more than a week ago, and she knew perfectly well that it would probably be another week until its addressee received it. Plus, for all she knew, it would be a week before he would have the presence of mind to open it. And then the journey…Camelot had the fastest and strongest horses in the five kingdoms. It would still take him a fortnight—at _least_—to meander his way to the designated meeting place. It wasn't as though it was exactly recorded on every map ever drawn. And there _was_ the likelihood that he hadn't come alone, no matter how clearly she expressed the necessity of _that_ term. No, he wouldn't come alone, but she wasn't sure whether that would hasten his journey or slow him down. She only hoped that he had the sense to travel without a flock of knights or a retinue or anything equally foolish. Speed was of the utmost importance, and she thought that she'd expressed _that_ well enough.

Which is why it had caused her all but physical pain when she'd had to send off that oh-so-important scroll to the king of Camelot via _messenger,_ no magic. _He_ had insisted on that. And, as had become the routine as of late, he hadn't told her why. The very first time that he asked her to do something rather risky without explaining the reasoning behind the request, she had been appalled. A lad younger than herself, displaying no magic, sitting and giving orders!

Now, months later, things were different. She would have felt rather pathetic obeying the orders of a lad younger than herself who displayed no magic if it were not for the…_sinister_ darkness that somehow shone out from his eyes. He didn't need to ask politely to give impressive demonstrations of magic. She knew that he had it and she knew that he had more than she did and so she did as she was told.

A fact which frightened her more than almost anything else ever had. She had thought that _she_ was a figure more than capable of taking over—or at least, taking _out_ Camelot, the kingdom that had initiated the magical persecution that had spread out into all of the others—but then, they had found each other. Or had he sought her out? That was another question that he'd refused to answer her. She only wondered, rather hopefully, whether or not he was more powerful than the mysterious Emrys who haunted her dreams and, increasingly, her days.

She still did not know which of the two she was hoping for.

Emrys…how could a _name_ somehow be so threatening to her? She supposed that it would have been helpful if any of the others of her kind that she had encountered in her travels had had any more information about the sorcerer than she did. But no one knew anything. Just that there was _Emrys _and, depending on the loyalties of each particular informant, a man dreamt of or dreaded, or even considered a legend never to be realized. Of course, she'd had the impression from every _Druid_ that she'd met that, frustratingly, they all somehow knew. It wasn't anything that they said—whenever she got one to talk to her, he or she usually just said that "Emrys is Emrys, and he is everything that you are not" or that "Emrys is Emrys, and he is the light to your darkness" or, most frighteningly, "Emrys is Emrys, and he is the darkness to your light." She'd wondered briefly if perhaps _he_ was Emrys, the young man barely past boyhood beside whom she know stood with fearful loyalty, but she hadn't dared to ask. It felt almost inconceivable that he could be the man of the legends and, if he was, every fiber of her being did not want to know.

Of course, in the better part of the past year, rumors as to a possible identity of Emrys had been flying about, and they all pointed to the same person. _Merlin,_ they called him. From the stories that she had heard, he had still been manservant to King Arthur when he'd been caught doing magic and later exiled, after a lengthy imprisonment. Depending on the source, she'd heard that he'd been kept in the dungeons for a briefly as a week to as lengthily as a year. Many of the sources seemed to agree, however, that Merlin was a likely candidate. She hadn't believed it for an instant. Even if he _was_ a sorcerer, how powerful could he have been that he was able to be imprisoned and then forced out of a kingdom by a mere man? She could have escaped from a cell in minutes, and she had to concede that Emrys—if he was real—was more powerful than she. If Emrys was real, he was not a man whom any cell could contain or any king could exile.

Others had argued with her, not knowing who she was. Otherwise, would they have dared? So they argued. They said that he must have _some_ significant powers if he was able to remain at the side of a magic-paranoid monarch for nearly a decade without being caught, that there had to be _some_ sort of powerful enchantment used on the king that he had chosen to exile the sorcerer rather than execute him, as the laws of Camelot had dictated. She just couldn't accept that. From the less biased reports that she'd heard, she felt that it was far more likely that King Arthur was an idiot—if admittedly brave—and therefore not difficult to fool and that he had too weak a stomach to execute a former servant, especially if that servant didn't seem so powerful that he was any real threat to his lands. Merlin the manservant as legendary Emrys? Wherever and whoever the _real_ Emrys was, she imagined that he had to be insulted by the idea.

But _he_ did not seem to share her borderline obsession with the true identity of Emrys. She had decided not to let that bother her; after all, it was almost a fad amongst what few clumps of open magic-users could be found to speculate about the identity. It was just another expression of blind hope_,_ and if there was one thing that she had learned from _him,_ it was that "hope" was just another word that the lazy used for "imagination."

Besides, he was awfully associated with the Druids. Perhaps he already knew.

It wasn't like he would tell her if he did. The looks of silent disdain that he threw in her direction whenever she began to even _think_ of Emrys in his presence were enough to chill her to the bone. She had to struggle, now, to conceal her thoughts. It seemed to be working. It usually left her strangely exhausted, but she felt like she was building up a tolerance.

And it was an honor to be his right-hand woman. If she had to suffer headaches every once in a while, so be it. Even if she was, at this point, far more interested in solving the mystery of Emrys than she was of any particularly destructive mischief, she was more than willing to help him. After all, hadn't her fleeting glimpses of and her brief encounter with Emrys shown her that the sorcerer had some strangely vested interest in Camelot? Perhaps _his_ plan would be enough to bring Emrys out of the woodwork, to reveal himself. Perhaps Emrys would even be the one that Arthur would bring with him.

Probably not, though. One of the few things that he had told her before she had so reluctantly handed the scroll bearing the summons off to a messenger—a _messenger!_—was that the king's traveling companion was more likely to be a manservant, past or present. From the way that his eyes had so strangely shone when he'd spoken thusly, she'd had the impression that he was hoping for the "past" of the two menservants. She figured that this was because, if the king was to bring any magical assistance, it was better for it to be that _Merlin_ of his than anyone else more powerful. Besides, one of the few ideas that nearly everyone that she had spoken to had agreed upon was that the king and his pet sorcerer were strangely attached to each other in what amounted to one of the most unlikely friendships in the five kingdoms. That was good. Affection was a weakness.

That was probably why _he_ had seemed so strangely satisfied. She had envied him that; how could he have already found any satisfaction before anything had started? They were _waiting._ Even he hadn't bothered starting in earnest on any of their carefully planned preparations yet. Considering the travel time of the messenger and then the travel time of the king—assuming that he would come—it would be at least a month before he and anyone whom he had decided to drag along with him would have found their way to where they would be waiting.

She _did_ wonder if he would come. It was one of the thoughts that she strived her hardest to conceal from _him_, but she wondered. Would the king suspect a trap? It would be hard not to. The whole thing stank of trickery. She herself had been astounded when he had told her that he meant exactly every word that he had dictated to her, himself unable to read or write any script that was not inked in such beautiful calligraphy on what few scrolls that he carried and that she had not been permitted to try to read, save for what few glances she'd been able to steal whenever he'd pored over them. Whether they were spells or the plan written or something that had drawn him out of his own hiding and initiated the whole plot, she did not know. And she tried not to wonder.

But she was afraid. She was afraid that the king wouldn't come, that the reasons written to him wouldn't be enough, that he'd be so wary of a trap that he wouldn't bother taking the risk of springing it, not with no one left in Camelot but a peasant queen and no heir; she was afraid that they wouldn't get the support from the others of their kind as they might have before the king had apparently gone through with his plan the legalize magic in Camelot; she was afraid that Emrys would come and that _he_ would not be able to defeat him; she was afraid that Emrys would come and _he_, in fact, _would_ be able to defeat him; she was afraid that the contacts that _Merlin_ had made during his months of exile, the magical folk most ardent in their beliefs that the errant manservant was truly Emrys, would rise up in his defense, the passion of their hopes being more than sufficient to flock to _his_ metaphorical banners, even if he was not the intended target of the whole plan and if he was just a plain old average sorcerer, as she steadfastly believed; that the king would leave behind a queen with child and ruin everything before it had even begun; that _he_ would turn on her before doing as he had promised her, just as she had turned on so many others before; that it would all be for naught and all of her waiting would have been useless and have led to nothing and that _she_ would start to _hope_ and then it would all be over for her.

Suddenly, _he _entered the room, soundlessly and startlingly treading upon the broken rocks that littered the stone floor beneath them, the dappling sunshine that shone through the holes in the roof playing across his face in a peculiarly _lovely_ vision. Unsurprisingly, he did not speak. So she raised her eyes to his, repressed the familiar shudder that was a mix of respectful awe and dread that there was too much in this boy than there should have been in anyone, and she closed her mind and smiled.

And she kept waiting.

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**Sequel time! So, this one isn't nearly so much a sequel to my previous stories as "Comes Around" was to "What Goes Around"—it should be able to stand alone. **

**To any new readers, I hope that you stick around—if this chapter seemed vague or boring, it's because almost everything is important for later and will come back, in some capacity. **

**Thank you for reading, and reviews are always welcome! **


	2. A First For Everything

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine. **

Arthur was behaving strangely.

Well, at least, in _Merlin's_ opinion, Arthur was behaving strangely. He couldn't say whether or not Arthur agreed on the matter; when Merlin had laughingly made the accusation, shouting over the wind that enveloped them, cold and fierce and piercing to the bone in a deliciously exhilarating sensation, Arthur hadn't deigned to answer. He had just tightened his grip on the uneven surface beneath his fingers and maintained the expression of barely-contained terror, eyes streaming from a combination of the wind and what was, in Merlin's opinion, a rather irrational refusal to blink, knuckles white from the insistence of his grasp, body so needlessly tight and rigid that Merlin was sure that he would be incredibly sore by the time that they were to stop and dismount for the night. The last that Arthur had spoken had been _hours_ before, when he had shouted at Merlin that, if people were meant to fly, they would have been born with wings, and that this was a stupid idea and they should probably turn back immediately.

Now that he thought about it, Arthur probably thought that, by the relative nonchalance with which Merlin had been viewing their travels thus far, _Merlin_ was the one who was behaving strangely.

But honestly, thought Merlin defensively. What did Arthur _think_ riding on a dragon was going to be like? They hadn't exactly had any dragon-sized saddles available and, as he had informed Arthur firmly, he would not have been presumptive enough to propose attaching one to Aithusa. There was such a thing as manners! When Merlin tried to instill in him a bit of empathy by asking how _he_ would feel if _Aithusa_ approached him and proposed putting a saddle on _his_ back, Arthur had just glared and tried to find a tighter handhold on the scaly skin of the dragon before he took flight.

Granted, Merlin _had_ informed a hesitant Arthur that riding a dragon was more or less the same as riding a horse, but he felt that it was entirely _Arthur's_ fault that he hadn't asked Merlin to specify exactly what he meant by "more or less."

Aithusa hadn't made things any easier, to the extent that an exasperated Merlin had had to ask Aithusa whether or not adolescent dragons were always as moody as adolescent humans before he became somewhat begrudgingly friendly once more. Merlin had made the mistake of informing Arthur that dragons were like horses in that they could smell fear, inventing whatever dragon facts suited him, so long as they hastened Arthur's willingness to climb up on the dragon's back. Aithusa had then taken offense, both at the implication that he was interchangeable with a horse and the idea that Arthur was afraid of him. During their brief interactions prior to the beginning of _this_ particular adventure, Arthur and Aithusa had seemed at the very least to tolerate each other. Aithusa was so young that he did not bear the same admittedly justified grudges against Pendragons as did Kilgarrah, and Merlin suspected that Aithusa's pale coloration had led Arthur to appreciate him as another blond. For Arthur to suddenly become frightened of him was apparently a mortal insult to Aithusa. Merlin still wasn't sure whether he ought to be entertained or exasperated by the whole situation.

Sparing another glance at the king who was determined not to show any fear, Merlin saw that his face was nearly as white as Aithusa's skin, and Merlin had to suspect that what color that remained in his cheeks was a ruddiness resultant from the wind against their skin rather than any heartiness of spirit. He began to think that maybe it would be a good idea for them to take to the ground for the day.

But it wasn't _that_ good of an idea. The sky was barely even beginning to darken and, while Merlin admitted that spending the better part of a day on the back of a dragon could be something of a shock to _anyone_, he didn't think that they should be wasting any time, not when there was still light enough for them to carry on and when Aithusa still had the stamina to fly on without rest or sustenance or reassurance that he was far more fun a conversationalist than a horse. And he and Arthur had agreed before almost anything else that speed was of the utmost importance. After all, they weren't exactly flying across the kingdom on the back of a dragon for the fun of it. They needed speed and stealth and surprise and, while dragons weren't always the most subtle of creatures, most people preferred to dismiss as imagined any dragon sightings rather than consider them valid. And dragons were much faster than horses. Besides, it seemed that few people even knew that there really _was_ a large white dragon flying about the lands. Kilgarrah was meant to have been the last of his kind.

Merlin sighed as best he could against the rush of air over his face. He supposed that he ought to consider himself lucky that he enjoyed dragon rides. The freedom and danger and daring of it gave him a comfortable and pleasant sort of buzz throughout his body that generally allowed him to at the very least _stifle_ the negative thoughts that usually led to his hasty flights. Arthur didn't have the luxury, and Merlin had the impression that Arthur was alternating between a painful awareness of what was happening in front of him and the distant knowledge of what he was flying toward and what he was flying away from and how he had gone about doing them both.

Merlin personally preferred thinking about what they were flying toward rather than what they were flying from. They were flying _toward_ something that required action and movement and decision and magic and might and cleverness and it was all a puzzle to be worked out and they would, damn it, or they would die trying, satisfied for having perished in the attempt, at least.

But what they were flying away from? That was a queen and a throne and friends and duty and responsibility and everyone who loved them and everyone who would be mad and sad and scared and supportive all at the same time when they found out what the two of them had done and that was _home_ and where they were needed most and where they most wanted to be, now when they had been so very close to peace. Balance had been so close…magical and non-magical, together in legality, if not yet entirely in the hearts of every citizen of Camelot. They had been so close…

But then the letter had come. Merlin glowered into the sunset, the warmth of the sun on his cheeks a welcome change as he tried not to dwell on what had driven them from the comfort of the settling stillness in Camelot, out into the uncertainties that they were facing. That damn scroll…

He supposed that he ought to give some credit to the author. In just a few sentences, both Arthur and Merlin had been ready and determined to carry out the terms specified in the ink. There had been no thought or consideration. They were leaving. They agreed on that much.

What troubled Merlin most, however, was that he knew perfectly well that they did not agree on who had sent the summons. There had been no signature or identifying seal, but that hadn't mattered. The content required no claimant to persuade them to this new quest. Merlin knew who Arthur thought had sent it, and they hadn't had a particularly large amount of time for discussion, so Merlin hadn't bothered to tell him that he had his own ideas.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Arthur. He did, with his whole life and everything in it. It was just that he was not sure that he trusted Arthur's judgment at the time. Arthur had taken one look at the unsettling content and convinced himself that he recognized the hand. Merlin had wanted to tell him that he was confused, that he was seeking the familiar in what was not, that he saw a dozen different styles of handwriting every day, from every corner of the five kingdoms, that there was no way that anyone's writing could be so specific that he'd know it immediately. It was just…unlikely. But once Arthur made up his mind about something and there was no proof to the contrary…well, it would have been one long dragon ride if Merlin had shared his own theory before he had any time to sort out his thoughts.

It wasn't a theory, though, not really. Just a gut feeling. An instinct. A fear that it was all feeling far too familiar for comfort. He may not have received any epiphanies from the script as had Arthur, but the whole scenario just seemed like something that she would have designed. He knew that he didn't exactly have a plethora of experience of shady dealings with her, but he knew enough to guess and estimate and figure and it all was adding up to her and it all made so much sense that it seemed almost more potent than what didn't make any sense.

He could still see her, if he closed his eyes and thought hard and nourished the flame that always began to burn in his chest when he thought of the things that she had done, to him, to those whom he loved, to herself, to a world that had wronged her that she sought to fix by wronging it tenfold. Besides, it hadn't been so long ago that they'd been face to face. So much had happened since then that it seemed decades ago, but it was so fresh in his memory whenever he chose to remember their last encounter...

Could it be her, though? She was dead. She had to be. He'd seen it. Hadn't he? She had died, and he spent a fair amount of time telling himself that it was more her doing than it was his. But he had seen enough in the years since he had first come to Camelot and begun exploring his magic, since his exile and his travels farther into the world of magic than he'd imagined could possibly exist, since everything that happened once seemed to happen twice and thrice and all over again, since what was beginning to feel like forever…he knew now that it was hard to judge a man dead without a body in front of him.

Or a woman.

It could be her. It sounded like her. The letter spoke of things—facts, ideas, fears, flaws—that Merlin was sure were hardly public knowledge. She had her crystal, didn't she? He had always assumed that she'd had one of her own, hidden away somewhere. She could see things from afar, prying into the private sadnesses and trials of others, safe leagues and leagues away. How else could she know what Arthur was so afraid of? How else could she have known what exact words could draw him away from the safety of his rightful place on the throne? How else could she have known that Merlin would be the first to unroll the scroll, the contents of which may just have well been addressed to him rather than Arthur? How else could she have known that one of the pressures of being king and being queen had nothing to do with matters of state and rather with matters of the heart and the body and perfect opposites that were perfect matches?

If anyone could do it, Merlin thought, she could. Well, he probably _could_ do it as well, but he had told her long ago that he would never choose to ally himself with magic such as hers. Besides, this was truly a _woman's_ magic. He could not imagine that any man would be so cruel or so fundamentally unjust as to be capable of taking away or granting or altering this so basic of an ability away from a woman, especially one such as Guinevere.

One such as a queen.

A queen…

Merlin closed his eyes and rested his forehead down against the hard scales of the dragon upon which he flew. The rough skin was strangely comfortable to him, and he found a peace in the warmth of the dragon below him that contrasted so sharply with the cold of the wind at his back. Eyes closed, it was as peaceful a sensation as was attainable at this height.

Peace…

Yes, it was her. Revenge against the father by way of the son, violation of a new queen as parallel to the interference on the previous that had started so much. She could not unpurge what had been purged, she could not absolve the shame that would not doubt haunt the persecuted, no matter what freedoms they were granted by law, she could not bring back the dragons or reforge sacred artifacts of her faith or heal the rifts rent by pain and sorrow and blame. But she could see Uther where there was only Arthur, and what happened before could happen again.

And what did it matter if he thought her dead? From what he remembered, it wouldn't be the first time that she had been given up for dead and then rediscovered. She may have made her reappearance with a new face and a new voice and a new initiative, but it was her. And what meant that she could not do it again? Powerful as he was, he still knew so little about the lines that blurred between life and death. He didn't want to know. Every time that he tried to interfere, someone suffered. But she knew. She'd held the Cup of Life in her own hands. He'd seen it. She knew magic that he never dreamed of seeking.

It could be her.

Gods help them all, it could be her.

But maybe Arthur was right. After all, if anyone alive were to recognize the hand of _his_ prime suspect, it would be Arthur. Maybe Merlin was just becoming imaginative and overexcited and his mind had just run away from him from the first moment that he read the scroll that threatened the king via the queen via within. Hell, for all he knew, maybe neither he nor Arthur were correct, and this was just another sorceress who had it in for Arthur and they were making a big deal out of nothing and it would cost them no more than a few gray hairs oft-denied and deeply buried within the blond of the king and another magical toss-into-the-fireplace by Merlin. And hell, maybe it wasn't even a woman.

It didn't matter, he told himself, opening his eyes and squinting into the brilliant orange and purple of the setting sun, appearing only inches beyond his fingertips, within his grasp if he chose to stretch for it. They would find whoever it was, man or woman, old foe or new enemy, young or aged. He and Arthur would find whoever it was that dared threaten something so dear to both of them, so fundamentally important in a way that was deeper than any person or any object or any ability, and they would see that whoever it was would not be in much of a way to make any future threats on anyone. They would take care of this problem, and it would all be okay, because Guinevere was a good queen and she could manage in Arthur's absence, once she decided whether or not she would issue a warrant for their heads in retaliation for their having fled the castle without any forewarning. Gwaine would help, he knew. Arthur hadn't been happy when Merlin confessed that he'd told Gwaine the basics of their plan and left the unsigned scroll with _him_ rather than leaving in all in a message for Guinevere to stumble upon later, but he had no regrets. He'd felt as though _someone_ ought to know that they were leaving. Leaving under utter secrecy felt as though they were sneaking out, and that just didn't feel right. He was not ashamed of what they were off to do, and Gwaine was one of the two men that he trusted most in the world. He would help Guinevere as best as he could, and Camelot would be in fine hands if they didn't return.

Until they returned.

It didn't matter, thought Merlin brusquely to himself. Whether they did or didn't was not the point of their quest. All that mattered was that they succeeded.

Plus, they had a dragon.

Merlin lifted his hands off of Aithusa's back and sat up, rubbing his eyes. Merlin had no doubt that, if Arthur had possessed the nerve, he would have turned to glare at Merlin for the ease with which he conducted himself on the dragon. But Arthur was still motionless, jaw set and eyes streaming and knuckles white, his figure severe but somehow impressive as they flew through the air, the final rays of the day's sunshine gleaming off of his golden hair. King Arthur…

Merlin leant forward and whispered a few words into Aithusa's ear. The wind was still rushing over him with such pounding ferocity that he could not hear himself speak, but he had no doubt that Aithusa had understood. His belief was confirmed seconds later when the magnificent white wings of the young dragon dipped, and the body angled downward, ever so slightly, and they began a slow descent to the land below.

Merlin had specifically instructed Aithusa to take it slowly on this first descent—going downward on a dragon's back was generally far more terrifying than going up, and he didn't want to push Arthur too far on his first day. Still, the minute adjustment of Aithusa's wings that first moment shook Arthur to his core, as far as Merlin could tell. His eyes were flitting back at forth and, for the first time in hours, he spoke. Fortunately, Aithusa had slowed his pace significantly, and Merlin was able to hear quite clearly what Arthur was saying.

"Merlin, what the _hell_ is he doing?"

Merlin wished that he had something that he could throw at Arthur, just for the fun of it.

"Landing!"

The incredulity dripped from Arthur's rather strained voice. "Does he need to _plummet _down like his wings just snapped off?"

Merlin glanced downward at the landscape below them, becoming larger as they moved.

_Slowly _becoming larger.

_Very_ slowly.

Merlin looked back at Arthur, raising his eyebrows, knowing perfectly well that there was no way that Arthur would be able to see the expression, but enjoying being contrary just for the sake of it. "I hope that you don't think that this is the fastest that he can go. If you do, just wait until we get to some mountains. Aithusa seems to enjoy his sheer drops."

Arthur either didn't notice or did not care to acknowledge Merlin's implication. "Why are we going down?"

"Are you enjoying yourself that much, Arthur?"

Arthur actually turned enough to meet Merlin's gaze, and Merlin understood how serious he was. "I mean it, Merlin! We should keep going. The sooner we get there, the more likely we'll catch them off guard, the sooner we take care of this."

"We can't go all night, Arthur," responded Merlin, patient in his acceptance of Arthur's anxiety.

"Why not? You and me, we'll live. And dragons can fly in the dark, can't they? I mean, they don't have to dodge trees or ditches or anything like horses. How hard could it be?"

Aithusa took a sudden deep dip to the right, and Arthur swore at the top of his lungs, scrambling to tighten his grip to the dragon with such frenzy that he almost knocked himself off in the effort. Merlin smiled. Arthur was learning the lesson that he'd learned on _his_ first dragon flight: insult the dragon, and the flight becomes a whole lot less predictable.

Once Arthur's breathing slowed once more and Merlin stopped smiling at the idea that he finally found _Arthur's_ irrationally crippling fear, he answered Arthur's question.

"Aithusa needs food and water and sleep, same as we do. We'll camp for the night and start again in the morning, and you should probably say thank you to Aithusa for not knocking you off of his back before you fall asleep."

Arthur shook his head, growing stubborn. "Merlin, we should keep—"

Merlin shook his head and cut him off. "Feel free to carry on alone on foot, Arthur! I'm staying in one place and eating and sleeping and not going _anywhere_ until dawn. _And _I'm keeping the dragon!"

Arthur scowled and remained silent for a few moments. "I liked it better when I was the knight and you were the manservant."

Merlin laughed. "I'm sure that you did. Stretch out those arms, Arthur! I hope that you're ready to gather some firewood and cook some dinner!"

Arthur scowled for a moment longer, then laughed, almost looking surprised as he did so.

Merlin smiled. "The altitude's getting to you, Arthur. Just wait, I'll have you singing tavern songs before the night's over."

Arthur kept smiling, and Merlin was pleased that Arthur seemed to be coping well enough, although he did have to concede that some of the giddiness probably _was_ due to the thinness of the air at the height at which they'd been flying for most of the day.

"You will not," Arthur unnecessarily shouted in response, and Merlin winced. Everything that would have been inaudible a few minutes previously was very much comprehensible now that Aithusa's wings were not beating so furiously to their sides and the air was not rushing past their ears so deafeningly.

So, naturally, Merlin shouted, at the top of _his_ lungs, right back. "I will so!"

In his turn, Arthur flinched at the noise, Merlin noticed in rather inappropriate satisfaction. He _had_ deliberately leaned closer to Arthur's ear to yell.

"Will not!" Arthur responded maturely, his voice thankfully more controlled.

"Will so," Merlin countered.

"You're _wrong_, Merlin," said Arthur, adopting his lofty voice and that superior expression that took so much of his focus that he did not notice how Merlin's eyes grew distant as his mind flew back to the contemplations that had occupied his mind as the sun had set, about the how and the why and the what and the _who_…Was he wrong?

"I hope you're right, Arthur," said Merlin. "I really hope you're right."

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**Thank you for reading! Reviews are always very appreciated. **


	3. An Unexpected Alliance

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine. **

She sat, motionless.

What else was there to do? There was nothing, absolutely _nothing_ in her power that could change anything that was worth changing at that moment. She was the bloody _queen_ of Camelot, and yet it sometimes seemed as though she was the last person to find out anything important that went on in the kingdom.

She understood _why_ she had been kept in the dark on this particular issue, although she hated herself a little bit for doing so. Of _course_ Arthur ran off when he heard that she was in danger, without so much as a consultation or farewell or the _courtesy_ to explain himself. Of course he did. This was the same fool whom she loved and who had proclaimed that he was willing to abandon his claim to the throne of Camelot if that was what it took in order to be with a commoner such as Guinevere. He _did_ have his fits of gallantry that went above and beyond what was entirely necessary.

She wasn't surprised that Merlin had gone with him. She was fairly certain that Arthur wouldn't have even needed to try to persuade him. Merlin was a friendly person, but there were few people in his life that he truly _loved,_ without reservation and without condition, and she knew that she was one of them. If he had gotten the news alone, Merlin probably would have gone off on his own without involving either Guinevere _or _Arthur.

Arthur and Merlin…she had known them as a unit for as long as they had been one, and she could still not decide if they were more dangerous or more formidable when they worked in tandem. The decisions that they made together were often not the most practical, but they were almost always strangely effective in whatever convoluted methods that were employed. It was very frustrating for a woman whose primary concern was usually for their safety.

They enabled each other in far too many ways. If _Arthur_ had received the news alone, he probably would have run off to tell _Merlin_ anyway.

She wished that that did not make her feel the pangs of jealous sadness that always seemed to stab at her whenever they did something like this, especially since she and Arthur had been married. It wasn't that she had hoped that her increased importance in Arthur's life would lessen Merlin's; it was just that she had hoped that it wasn't exactly unreasonable for her to expect to be kept in the loop nowadays. Wifely duties aside, Arthur had not run away from a serving girl, safe in her unimportance and negligible role in the larger scheme of things. Arthur had run away from a _queen,_ his regent in writing, the woman in charge of the kingdom in his absence, a job for which she now realized she was entirely unprepared. It was not that she was incapable; she _knew_ that she _could_ do it. It was just that it had not yet occurred to either herself or her husband that she needed any extensive training in order to do so. They were too young and too newlywed to worry about such things…

But now Arthur was gone and she only had a vague idea of the direction that he must have taken. She couldn't even have sent riders after him if she'd wanted to, whether to bring him back or escort him toward his goal, with his safety increasing by his numbers. From the original rumors that had been confirmed into fact, Arthur and Merlin had taken off from the castle on the back of Merlin's white dragon and, although her interactions with the creature that he called Aithusa had been limited, she would have been a fool, she knew, to imagine that even the fastest of the horses in Camelot could catch them anytime soon.

Guinevere very suddenly became aware of an aching in her back, and she shifted herself, swinging her legs out from below the blankets of her bed and shivering at the coldness of the stones below her bare feet, glad that the nightclothes that she had chosen the night before to counter the strange chills that had been plaguing her all day were thick enough to keep the chill from the floor ascending higher on her body.

She supposed that she ought to also be glad that the nightclothes that she had chosen the night before were as modest as they were. If only she and Arthur had spent the night together in the shared chambers that adjoined each of their individual sets of rooms, none of this might be happening…

To his credit, Sir Gwaine did not wince or avert his eyes when the queen had taken to her feet before him, clad only in nightclothes, disheveled from a night's sleep, and without an appropriate chaperone in the room with them. Arthur's gallantry was one of his finest qualities, Guinevere felt, but Gwaine's frankness was a welcome change on this particular morning. And she didn't care anyway. It was just Gwaine.

Besides, she had to respect the fact that he had told her everything that he could about what had happened without peppering his tale with apologies. She was somewhat annoyed that he had waited until morning to come to her, clearly wanting to give Merlin and Arthur a head start before she could try to stop them, but he had come right out and admitted that as well. So it was a respectful annoyance.

It _was_ rather improper, she knew, that she had a knight in her bedchambers without a guard or maidservant present and pretending not to eavesdrop. But she had known immediately from the look on Gwaine's face that what he had to say was not meant for the ears of a bored-looking guard, and she was _still_, more than a year past her coronation, very uncomfortable with being waited upon. Arthur teased her that she was trying to be her own servant, but she always stoutly informed him that, if she was capable of doing something herself, why should she make someone else do it? Considering that, as they had these conversations, Arthur was no doubt wearing clothing selected and assisted with the donning by his own manservant, the argument almost always ended with a laugh.

How was it that she missed him already?

"You're sure?" Guinevere asked for the fourth time.

With surprising patience, Gwaine's response was as calmly firm as it had been the first three times that he'd be asked. "Yes, my lady. I did not see the king, but there was no mistaking Merlin. He meant what he was saying. And he was scared."

Guinevere nodded, knowing that Gwaine would not have said that Merlin was scared if he did not truly believe it to be so. He had to know that learning of Merlin's anxiety would do nothing to relieve her own, but he seemed determined to be honest with her.

"And he didn't tell you _anything?"_

Gwaine shrugged. "Nothing particularly helpful. Just that Arthur had received a summons and that he was going with him because Arthur was going to need him. And, if I may say so myself, my lady, I didn't get the impression that Merlin was referring to company or conversation when he said that Arthur would be needing him by his side."

"Magic," whispered Guinevere.

Gwaine nodded. "That's what I figure."

She wanted to sit down again, but she knew that if she did, she'd have a hard time getting back up and moving again. So she began to pace back and forth, a quirk of Merlin's when _he_ was anxious that she had picked up, her bare feet making soft slapping noises as she padded across the stone floor. She wasn't sure what she thought of Gwaine's agreement that whatever was going on had to do with magic sufficiently powerful that even enigmatic _Merlin_ was showing his nerves. She _did_ know that, whatever it was, she was glad that Merlin was with Arthur rather than with her just then.

Guinevere walked back to her bed and picked up the wavy piece of parchment that had obviously once been a scroll but had been unrolled and re-rolled so many times that it could no longer take its intended shape, and she read it over once again as she continued pacing.

Guinevere was not mentioned by name, but who else could it be concerning? It wouldn't have made sense for it to have been about anyone else. Addressed to Arthur, concerning "his woman" and her safety, with specifics about their private lives that _she_ had not told a single soul and that she was sure that Arthur would not have shared with anyone other than perhaps Merlin, and she knew that Merlin valued Arthur's confidence far too much to spread his secrets around like common gossip. As much as she objected to being referred to as Arthur's "woman," she tried not to focus on it. She should have been more bothered by the _content,_ should she not? Threats against her life, her health, her body from within, _Camelot_ from within, Camelot from _without,_ and so much that the writer knew that he or she should not know that it felt far too true for her to entirely condemn Arthur and Merlin for stealing off in the middle of the night as they had. It felt too _real_ for her to call them _complete_ fools for doing as they had done.

She wished that the writer had identified him or herself. Gwaine seemed convinced that whoever it was had been a woman, but he had been rather baffled and almost amused when she'd asked him why and he hadn't known. He'd finally informed her that it looked like a woman's writing which, by the interim in which he'd had to pause to come up with something and the fact that Gwaine had also once said that _Arthur_ had a woman's writing, Guinevere took to mean that he didn't have any legitimate reason for his assumption and was just trying to cover his blunder.

She thought she knew why, though. The whole plot felt magical, between the knowledge that no one should have known, Merlin's alarm and insistence that Arthur would need him, the fact that no one could figure out how exactly the letter how found its way to Arthur. And when it came to magical mischief over the past decades, a great deal of the worst of it seemed to come at the hands of sorcer_esses_. Nimue, the advisor turned attacker; Mary, the grieving mother who'd tried to kill Arthur, her plot only _just_ foiled by a young boy, newly-arrived to Camelot, called Merlin, all those years ago; Sophia, the strange girl who'd tried to enchant and drown Arthur; Lady Catrina, the _troll_; _Morgana,_ her friend and mistress and one of the people whom she mourned most, despite the fact that her death was not confimed; the strange Lamia girl, who had turned the gallant knights of Camelot against herself and Merlin; Morgause…

_Morgause. _

Guinevere was perhaps the only person in Camelot who hated Morgause more than any of the others. She did not despise Morgause for the damage that she'd caused _Camelot,_ for her attempts on Uther's life, or even for the hand she played in the first usurping of the rightful king of Camelot. She despised Morgause for taking away all of the goodness that had been in Morgana, for stealing away her friend and sending back a fiend. Morgause's corruption of Morgana even played a part in why Guinevere still refused a regular maidservant. It would remind her of what she'd had with Morgana, and that would have been too much for her to bear on a daily basis.

Could it have been Morgause? Was Morgause the sender of the scroll that threatened everything good in her life?

Guinevere closed her eyes, even as she paced, and tried to pay no attention to the way in which her heart sank. What proof did they have of Morgause's death, beyond a few rumors and unsubstantiated claims? Could a sorceress as powerful as Morgause even be killed? She had put all of the castle to sleep, created an immortal army, brought forth Arthur's mother only to banish her again, blackened the heart of a confused young woman for no good reason at all…could any mortal means truly kill Morgause? She couldn't imagine any knife or sword or arrow or even _illness_ being enough to destroy _that_ witch. Besides, Lancelot had come back, hadn't he?

In the months after her banishment, as she wallowed in shame and the memory of what she had done, trying to figure out _why_ she would have betrayed Arthur on the eve of their wedding, she had found hole after hole in the story that Lancelot had told after his mysterious reappearance. Arthur and Merlin had been so sure that he had been killed that day on the Isle of the Blessed, and she had never seen a body…if Lancelot was somehow brought back, good and brave and true Lancelot, couldn't someone so dark as Morgause come back as well?

It was so easy to forget sometimes that she could not judge all users of magic by the example set by Merlin. And there were plenty of stories that _he_ refused to tell, that hollow and almost threatening deepness gathering in his gaze. Even the best of men, she understood, had their dark sides, and she knew for a fact that Arthur had woken up in a cold sweat on more than one occasion, saying before he remembered himself that he had dreamt of "a Merlin unleashed." Arthur had by far seen more of Merlin's magic than she had, and if _Arthur_—such a close friend to Merlin and with such knowledge of his power—could be haunted by Merlin's potential, she could not help but shudder herself.

Guinevere shook her head. She did not like thinking about what Merlin could become if he was turned as Morgana had been, good into evil and power into destruction, and she did not like thinking of Lancelot and all that had been that shouldn't have been and what _could_ have been…

The familiar shame welled in her chest, and she opened her eyes, lest the tightness of her closed eyelids should allow unbidden tears to leak out. She was stronger than that.

"My lady?"

Guinevere jumped. She had almost forgotten Gwaine, and in a situation so serious that he insisted on addressing her with a proper title than the name under which he had first met her, she felt guilty. And she knew that she was going to have to take advantage of Gwaine's knowledge until Arthur and Merlin returned—his knowledge of the characters of both men; the sides generally not shown in the presence of ladies, even Guinevere; of what Merlin had said in their final interaction; of what others were thinking of her first attempt at solo regency; as the only other person in on the secret of where the king and his sorcerous advisor had disappeared to, the only other person to whom she would be able to speak openly until they respond.

Guinevere was very glad that Merlin had chosen _Gwaine_ as the knight to be by her side at this time. She knew that Arthur probably would have approved as well, had he known.

Eventually, at least.

But Merlin had grown up commonly and Guinevere had grown up commonly and Gwaine had chosen to live commonly, and a confidante of a life of nobility just then would have served to make her nervous, rather than grant any relief. Sir Leon would have been Arthur's choice, she knew, and Leon would have been a _good_ choice. But Gwaine was the right choice.

Very suddenly, a sort of wavery confidence washed over Guinevere, and she stood straight and tall and proud, feeling like a _queen,_ in spite of her bare feet and rumpled hair and ridiculously long and high-necked nightdress, any urge to cry or tremble or curse Arthur or Merlin or even _Morgause_ from afar for what she suspected was her role in the events of the night before.

"Were no other instructions left behind?" she asked Gwaine, pleased to hear a business-like tone in her voice.

"No. Just a lot of vague warnings. Pretty unhelpful, actually," responded Gwaine solemnly, before an inexplicable grin grew across his face.

"Why are you smiling if all you have are unhelpful vague warnings?"

Gwaine shrugged. "I'm just glad that I got a goodbye this time."

Guinevere stopped pacing and glared pointedly at him, and Gwaine's smile became slightly tinged with apology.

Slightly.

"Well, if that's all, Sir Gwaine, you may go," said Guinevere, attempting to sound as lofty as Arthur did when he was being deliberately dismissive. "I must dress and get ready for—"

"Oh! Wait," interrupted Gwaine, and he began rummaging in his pockets. "Merlin left me something else. He said that it was yours but I think that he was afraid that you would be so mad at him and Arthur that you'd destroy it before you got a chance to calm down and so he gave it to me. He said that you'd know what to do and—here it is!"

Gwaine withdrew from his pocket a small object. When Guinevere caught sight of what it was, she immediately glanced over at her small desk next to the windows through which the bright morning light was streaming into her chambers. It was the desk where she stored what she needed to keep up with her queenly correspondences, where she kept her parchment and her ink and her quills and her box of boring white candles for sealing wax on the majority of her letters and her…

"That stupid skinny sorcerous little _sneak_ son of a—"

Gwaine laughed, and the rest of Guinevere's slur against Merlin turned into an unwilling smile. There were plenty of people in Camelot who laughed whenever she did something particularly unbefitting of a queen and indicative of her life outside of the luxuries of a castle, but Gwaine was one of the few who laughed in appreciation.

Gwaine held the half-burnt purple candle before him and turned it over in his hands, a doubtful expression on his face beneath the lingering vestiges of his laugh. "Does this actually serve a purpose, or did Merlin manage to find the time before he ran away on a super urgent secret mission to pull a practical joke on me?"

Guinevere shook her head, strode forward and took the purple candle from his rough hands. "No, it serves a purpose. Merlin gave it to me when…remember when he was exiled? And you didn't get a goodbye?"

Gwaine nodded, rolling his eyes and scowling a little bit at Guinevere's retaliatory dig at _his_ lack of farewell the last time that Merlin had run off in the middle of the night. "It rings a bell."

"Well, when Merlin came to see me, I asked where was going so that I could write to him, just to know that he was alive and okay. He said that he didn't where he was going just yet, but I must have looked fairly pathetic, because he took a candle—one of the normal white ones that are all over the castle—and did something magical to it—I don't know what exactly—and he turned it purple and told me that, any letter than I sealed with the wax of that candle would find its way to him," explained Guinevere, trying and failing to convey just how impressive Merlin had looked as he transformed the plain old white candle into a lifeline between the two of them, even in his exile.

Gwaine took the candle back from her and measured it with his fingers. "You must not have written very many letters."

Guinevere smiled. "I wrote lots of letters. It's just that whatever he did to the candle kept the wax from running out. I could keep it lit it for hours and it still wouldn't burn down. Sealing aside, it's pretty handy."

Gwaine raised his eyebrows and nodded in agreement. Then, his brow furrowed. "Wait, you said that your letters 'find their way' to him. How does that work? Who do you send it with?"

Guinevere shook her head, taking the candle from him again. "I don't know how it works really, but I don't give it to anyone. I just write it, seal it, and toss it out of a window and it sort of…zooms away. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it works."

Gwaine nodded again and snaked the candle away, from what Guinevere presumed was a desire to see how many times he could get away with it. "This definitely sounds helpful."

The sudden seriousness of his tone surprised her, especially contrasted with the quick expression of self-satisfaction as he successful stole the candle once more. "Why do you say it like that?"

Gwaine looked her squarely in the eye. "I can think of a lot of things that I want to say to both Merlin _and_ Arthur right now."

Guinevere automatically opened her mouth to defend them, out of sheer habit of having to rationalize some of the things that they did. But she thought of their secret departure and the summons and the threats and the things that were known that no one should have known and Morgause and Merlin and magic and revenge and of how she didn't know a damn thing other than that something was wrong and that her husband and her dearest friend were somewhere far away, where they could not help her decide.

So instead of any defense, she said, "So can I, Gwaine. So can I."

And she walked over to her desk, plans of dressing and styling and making herself presentable as Queen Guinevere forgotten as she thought of what she needed to say to the men who had left her. Finding a certain dignified poise, she sat at her desk, smoothed out a fresh piece of parchment, dipped a quill in a pot of ink, and began to write. Gwaine approached and leaned over her shoulder, reading what she wrote and interjecting from time to time. When she was done, she laid it in front of her and read it over once more, blowing gently on the ink to dry it. Beside her, she heard a hiss of flame as Gwaine lit the purple candle and, as he held it over the parchment and she placed her seal, she felt such an equality that she knew that they would make a good team, formidable enough to take on Camelot until Arthur and Merlin returned.

Or so she hoped.

Guinevere opened one of her windows and tossed the letter, rather thicker than her past notes, mostly due to some of the lengthy and particularly colorful descriptors that Gwaine felt necessary to include. It dropped nearly halfway down the wall, and Guinevere had just enough time to worry that the candle was somehow no longer working and that Arthur and Merlin would never receive the note when it swooped upward, as though caught in a sudden updraft, and her words soared off into the horizon.

She could only pray that she would get a response.

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**Sorry if these have been boring chapters—I had to get some exposition out of the way before some of the action began. There **_**are**_** hints scattered in them, so they're not worthless, I promise! Things will start happening now… **

**Anyway, thank you for reading. Reviews are always appreciated! **


	4. Sensitivity And Suspicions

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine. **

Morning came far too soon for Arthur's taste.

He had assumed that he'd have no problem falling asleep. He'd been awake and running around for the half of the night before that was not spent clinging to the back of a dragon that seemed determined to throw him off at any moment, his nerves receding only slightly as the many hours of the day passed them by, in the air and far too high for any hopes of survival, should a spiteful dragon choose to take a sudden roll in the air _just_ because Arthur _may _have implied that it had a few things in common with a horse. Arthur didn't see why Aithusa had taken offense. He hadn't meant it as an insult. Arthur _liked_ horses. He may not have been able to have secret magical conversations with them as Merlin could, despite his bemused and slightly concerned protests to the contrary, but Arthur liked horses. What wasn't to like?

Merlin could have at least _warned_ him that dragons were so touchy.

But in those early hours, Arthur hadn't needed to be awake for more than a few minutes to know that the dragon wasn't likely to be the only one of their mismatched trio that would be somewhat touchy that morning. The night before, as he had lain himself down to try to sleep, weariness had wracked him, body worn and sore from the hours clutching the dragon and holding himself stiffly upon its back, mind exhausted from the worries and considerations and reconsiderations that repeated themselves over and over again in his head, with just about every part of him exhausted.

And yet sleep hadn't come, not for hours. He'd had a blanket and a pack that, if punched into a certain shape, could more or less function as a pillow. He'd had a full belly, courtesy of the hunger that had rendered him willing to eat just about anything and of the food that Merlin had managed to sneak from the kitchens after he had run off and told Gwaine all about their plans, despite Arthur's _clear_ and _direct_ orders to the contrary. He'd had a warm fire at his feet, a sword inches from his fingertips and ready for the wielding, a friendly sorcerer adjacent somewhere in the darkness, and a bloody _dragon._ Substandard comforts aside, Arthur had known that he couldn't have gotten much safer _anywhere,_ including his castle.

But there was no sleep, and the madder that Arthur became at that frustrating fact, the less likely it became that he'd be able to lull himself into a slumber. He had found himself wishing for Guinevere more than once, which just ended up making him even angrier. This was not a place for Guinevere, and thinking about her would just make everything all the more difficult.

Yet how could he not? How he had left, without so much as a cursory wave or scribbled note for her, haunted him. What if he did not return? She would have every cause to remember him poorly. And then there was his kingdom…he had just _left._ It was only though pure luck that he had even bothered to have documents drawn up that established a legal regent in his absence. It was natural, of course, that a queen would rule in the place of a king if he were indisposed, but there had been so much discussion amongst his noblemen about the lowness of Guinevere's birth and how it no doubt rendered her incapable of ruling a kingdom that Arthur had put his foot down and made the whole thing official.

But making something legal wasn't the same as making something simple, and he knew it. During that long night, he had almost awoken Merlin a few times, just to talk to him, to hear another person say that they had done the right thing and that Guinevere would be alright without them and Camelot would be alright without them and this whole situation could not be resolved without them being gone. Merlin might not have known for sure any more than Arthur did, but he would have wanted to believe it just as much as Arthur, and Arthur figured that their mutual desperation could at least make him feel less alone, camped in a desolate patch of trees beside a clearing for the _dragon_ with whom he was currently on bad terms in the middle of a forest that he did not know, unsure of whose lands they were traversing at this point, chasing a phantom threat. Yes, he almost shook Merlin until he sat up, awake and swearing and alive enough to empathize. But Merlin knew better than anyone that legalizing something was not the same as simplifying it, and Arthur was not sure that he could bear the unconscious reproach that would take up residence in Merlin's eyes as they both remembered what had led to their rift and separation…

So instead of waking Merlin, he just rolled over on the lumpy forest floor and continued stewing.

In hindsight, that may not have been his most practical of decisions. He was awake enough to realize _that_, at least. Yet if Arthur had been paying more attention to his surroundings during that long night, he might have noticed that Merlin's breathing did not have the steadiness of a man asleep, that his arms were stiff and unrelaxed, that he rolled around on his blanket on the other side of the fire almost as much as Arthur did. If Arthur had known then that Merlin too was being haunted by what they were doing and what they had done, that he too was kept awake by it…Arthur might have been able to sleep.

But he did not learn of Merlin's sleeplessness until much later. So he lay, awake and uncomfortable and unhappy and so very uncertain that he did not feel the least bit like himself. He was used to being in control of _something._ It wasn't that he needed Merlin to act as manservant again or begin calling him "sire" or bowing or anything. It wasn't _that_ sort of control that he was missing. It just felt as though he was a spectator in a grand chaos that was being enacted in his name, yet he lacked the freedom or ability to bear any influence beyond what little could be accomplished by his presence alone.

_The note had been addressed to Arthur;_ Merlin had been the first to read it.

_They needed to leave the castle as soon as possible;_ instead of guiding and urging on his horse, they were traveling at unnatural heights with frightening speed on the back of a willful dragon, who seemed determined to unnerve Arthur and making turns and shifts at whim.

_They were racing toward what was almost certainly to be a battle for their lives, in which one side or the other was not likely to survive the encounter; _Arthur had sword and shield and knife and bow and he had Merlin, and he knew damn well that it was looking as though not even Excalibur was likely to be the main weapon in whatever battle unfolded. And it wasn't as though he could _wield_ Merlin.

There was so much happening and it was all happening around _him_ and he had almost nothing to do with how it was happening. It was hardly the first time that he'd felt impotent; it was just the first time that there was so much immediately at risk and that he'd had nothing else to preoccupy him.

So he lay awake for hours and hours until the heavy constancy of Aithusa's massive breaths, which fluttered the leaves of the trees around them into a symphony of forest whispers, and the warmth of the dying fire were enough to push him over the edge into an uneasy sleep.

An uneasy sleep from which he had been promptly and unceremoniously awakened once the sun began to peek its way over the trees, and the watery light of a reluctant dawn began to filter its way down to where they had lain, on either side of the blackened remains of an extinguished campfire.

An uneasy sleep from which he had been promptly and unceremoniously awakened when he was smacked in the side of the face with a _pinecone. _

He therefore felt that Merlin had better have the grace to take any grouchiness from Arthur in stride; being dragged from sleep by a blow to the face delivered via local vegetation was _not_ an act that generally provoked any morning cheer from Arthur. And his morning cheer was rare enough as it was.

Merlin, however, hadn't seemed to notice the darkness of his mood as he forced himself to unroll from his blanket. Merlin was skipping and stumbling about their small camp, packing what little had been unpacked and setting out a modest fare of food and drink, despite his repeated insistences that he would not be doing anything remotely servantly for Arthur on this trip. Arthur figured that Merlin's old habits were just dying hard, and he did not have the energy to work up any gratitude. Besides, half of what Merlin was setting out was for himself. How much effort could _doubling _it really cost him?

He, who would not just take a hint and _shut up_ and let Arthur wake properly on his own.

"Rise and shine, Arthur! Rise and…come on, get up. I know that you're not really falling back to sleep, I've seen you try that a hundred times. Get _up._ We have a lot to do and a long way to go before sunset, I think. Aithusa's off hunting and finding water for himself so that he won't pass out and send us all falling to our deaths today, because you know that I ordered him to fly us where we need to go and he can't really disobey because I'm a Dragonlord and all of that so he might think he wouldn't be allowed to stop so he's fueling himself up somewhere hereabouts and we had better get some food in _us_ because it would be just as bad if either of _us_ were to pass out up there. I mean, he'd probably bite off his own tail if he thought that it would save _me,_ but he's not your biggest fan right now, Arthur, so I'm not sure how hasty he would be to swoop in and save you if you fell off and…for heaven's sake, get _up_ already, Arthur, or you'll be getting worse than pinecones soon!"

Merlin kept chattering, and the only thing that kept Arthur from taking his blanket and slouching deeper into the forest to go back to sleep somewhere beyond Merlin's inane morning babble was the fact that Merlin probably _did_ have far more tricks up his sleeve significantly more annoying that a few flying pinecones. Grumbling indistinctly, Arthur shoved himself up and gave a sort of halfhearted stretch.

It was apparently enough for Merlin, who just went back to his business about the camp, keeping his face so strangely averted toward the ground that Arthur almost missed the purple shadows under his eyes, deep and dark and unhappy. He seemed to be moving as a matter of routine, just adjusted for two. His words were telling an annoyingly peppy tale; his face and eyes, stormy and tense, told another.

Unfortunately for both of them, Arthur was grouchy enough that he immediately chose to focus on the annoying peppiness rather than the relatable unhappiness with their current lot.

Trying not to look at him and be tempted to start something that would doubtless _not_ end well, Arthur bent down to pick up his blanket and beat it noisily against his knee, and the leaves and twigs that had attached themselves to the rough wool over the night falling to the ground. Merlin paid him no mind.

How _that_ managed to annoy Arthur, he would never be sure. It wasn't as though this was their first secret journey into the wilderness with only the other for company. Although it _was_ their first since Merlin had returned from his banishment…

Later, all that Arthur would remember of what had started it that morning was that the worst part of everything about as much of the day as he had currently been awake to experience was how _comfortable_ Merlin seemed to be with it all.

Objectively, Arthur knew that it made sense for Merlin to be able to quickly adapt to the material difficulties of a haphazard journey over miles and miles of unfamiliar forest that all seemed to blend together. Merlin had had six months of exile in which he could perfect the process. Arthur wasn't even used to secret quests that didn't involve some sort of _underling._ Whether it was a knight or a guard or a servant, Arthur always had someone with a set role who would do as he ordered without question, unless it was particularly irrational. That wasn't Merlin anymore, and Arthur wasn't even sure what sort of orders he would give, if he dared to try. Arthur had spent so much of the past two years devoted to the _ruling_ portion of his kingly duties. Merlin had finally become more familiar with _adventure_ that he had.

Then, suddenly, Arthur realized that Merlin was no longer chattering in the background. He seized his opportunity to try to understand some of what was making Merlin so comfortable with their current situation.

"Merlin."

Merlin jumped and began kicking at the ground for no apparent reason, clearly trying to cover the fact that he'd been watching Arthur. The look of concern that he was trying to conceal by staring into the hard dirt below his feet lingered long enough for Arthur to identify and become distinctly aggravated by it.

"What?"

Arthur was too tired to try to work himself up to care about whatever had overtaken Merlin _now._ He began putting back on the layers of clothing that he'd dared to remove as he sought sleep, and he started carefully reslinging his weapons about his body. "When you were in exile, did you ever travel by dragon?"

Merlin gave him a funny look and stopped his useless stomping. "I had Buttercup, Arthur. I went by horseback."

That was right. Merlin _had_ had his horse with him, that mare with the ridiculous name that Merlin had loved and that Arthur had left him before he went away into exile, presumably forever. Arthur bit his lip, slightly shaken. This was not something that he ought to have forgotten. He had gone to great pains to set up a scenario in which he could go out of his way to give Merlin his horse without it seeming as though he was going out of his way to give Merlin his horse. How had he forgotten that? He opened his mouth to say something defensive, to try to justify his lapse in memory regarding such a memorable act, although he did not know what. It would probably be unpleasant.

Then, before Arthur could blurt out something that he would probably regret, a huge shadow passed overhead. He looked up in alarm, hand automatically going to his hip, fingers curling around the exquisite hilt of Excalibur.

Merlin hadn't moved.

"Aithusa's back," he said, so casually and so quietly and so _normally_ that Arthur felt as though his head was going to explode with the oddity of the whole thing. Merlin just bent down and picked up a crust of bread, unconcerned. Chewing on it absently, he leant back against a tree trunk and faced the clearing where the dragon had slept, clearly waiting for it to circle down and land. Arthur's heart began to jump in his chest, and he found himself somehow hoping that the dragon was going to come down and say that, sorry, but he was bored with toting them around and they could just make their way on their own.

On the _ground. _

"I'm not getting back on that thing," Arthur heard himself say.

When Merlin glanced at him, surprise in his eyes and bread in his mouth, Arthur nearly had the presence of mind to feel guilty. And idiotic. What a stupid thing to say! They _needed_ the dragon.

Merlin swallowed his mouthful of dry bread and looked at him reproachfully. "Come on, Arthur. Don't be a prat to Aithusa just because you're sleepy. _I'm_ tired too, but you don't see me whining about our ride. Just eat some stale bread, drink some warm water, take a stretch, and put a smile on your face, because he'll be down in a moment and it is will be time for us to be up again."

"Feel free to go up as high as you want to, Merlin. I won't do it," Arthur said stubbornly, not really knowing why he was difficult other than the fact that he was scared and worried and he'd _finally_ fallen asleep and Merlin had had to be the unlucky person to wake him.

Merlin bit his lip and did not speak for a long moment. Arthur had the impression that he only _just_ avoided a response far sharper than the one that followed.

"Think of it this way, Arthur," said Merlin, his voice so bright that Arthur knew that it was faked. "It would take us _weeks_ to get there on horseback."

"We don't even know where we're going," Arthur muttered sullenly, voicing one of his more valid concerns for the morning, his ability to think clearly having returned to him once he'd been let off of the damn dragon the night before.

"We know what _direction!"_ answered Merlin, sounding more annoyingly chipper than ever and glossing over the unfortunate truth in Arthur's statement. He pushed himself up off of the tree trunk and began to walk back and forth.

Arthur ignored the warning signs. "Yes, but that's it. We're supposed to go north until the 'time is right' for the location to 'be revealed to me.' I read the scroll too, Merlin! But it doesn't make any _sense."_

Merlin's pace increased. "Sure it does."

"Maybe to you, Sir Sorcery, but to _normal_ people, that just sounds like a bunch of nonsense. Does having magic equate to only being capable of speaking vaguely? We didn't think this through, Merlin. We read the note and panicked and left before we realized that it was a really _really_ bad idea."

Merlin's voice was taking on the manic tone that usually warned Arthur that it was probably time for him to back off and either agree for the time being with whatever Merlin was saying or drop whatever it was that they were arguing about until they were both feeling more reasonable. _Especially_ now that he knew the extent of Merlin's powers.

"Speak for yourself, Arthur," said Merlin, speeding his way through the syllables. "I realized _immediately_ that this was a really really bad idea."

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest and stood stock still, a strangely grounded point in the face of Merlin's frenetic pace across their camp. "We need to rethink our strategy."

"What strategy?" asked Merlin, laughing with the sort of hysterical edge that should have told him that Merlin was even more sleepless than he was and that Merlin would not bear much more pushing before he snapped. And that should have reminded him that Merlin really didn't have to be here if he hadn't chosen to remain at Arthur's side. "_You_ just don't want to get back up on the dragon."

Arthur continued recklessly. "That's not it, Merlin! We knew exactly what we needed to do to get _started,_ and I think that we both know what we're planning on doing to _finish_ it. But the whole middle bit? I think that we've left a few key things out! Like _where the hell we're going!"_

Merlin actually _waved _his hand in front of him, as though both Arthur and his protest were no more than particularly persistent flies that he could just brush away. "Look, Arthur, don't worry about it. I know that this doesn't make sense to you—I do, truly—but it makes sense to _me._ If I were trying to lure someone into a trap, I'd probably do it the same way. We couldn't have told anyone where we were going because _we_ didn't know. What better way to ensnare a king?"

Arthur felt himself beginning to become legitimately angry, beyond his original desire to just provoke Merlin into becoming as aggravated at being awake as he was. His concerns were legitimate, and even if he wasn't voicing them the most calmly, Merlin could at least acknowledge that Arthur had the right to be rather uncertain. "You haven't said how we're going to realize when the 'time is right.' What if we don't recognize the signs when they happen?"

Merlin stopped pacing very suddenly and hesitated, looking as though he had two things that he _could_ say but was unsure which Arthur most deserved. Glancing at Arthur's scowl, Merlin seemed to make up his mind. "Well, I don't know _everything._ I know what _I_ would do, but I can't predict every little thing that every single sorcerer in the five kingdoms will do at a given time."

Merlin had blown off his question, and he knew it.

And Arthur did not appreciate it. "You know what you would do? Do you have a lot of evil traps planned out in your head? Just in case?"

Merlin let out a groan that was half a roar, and Arthur was so sure that he saw a flash of gold in the sorcerer's blue eyes that he took several steps backward before he realized that Merlin was not going to attack him.

"It was a long flight, Arthur! I got bored! Aithusa was flying too hard and being too sulky to want to talk because _somebody_ just _had_ to go and compare him to a _horse,_ and you were too busy being _terrified_ like a little _girl_ to be a particularly entertaining companion, so my mind wandered. So exile me, Arthur! Oh, wait, now I remember. You already did that," he said nastily.

Arthur gritted his teeth, trying to regain the calm that he had so unwisely dismissed before entering into a conversation like this with Merlin. He was so sensitive about dragons! Provoking a sleep-deprived and anxious Merlin at _dawn_ suddenly seemed like a far worse idea now that he was starting to wake up. "How would _you_ do it, then?"

Merlin ran his hands through his hair. As he lifted his messy bangs up off of his forehead and away from his face, Arthur more clearly the puffy purple bruises under his eyes and the paleness that was exaggerated even for _Merlin_ and found himself regretting more than ever his snippiness. Merlin looked as though he had slept even less than he had.

Nevertheless, Merlin answered. "Hmm? Oh. Magic."

Arthur took a deep breath before answering. _Calm._ He could be calm.

"I figured that much out on my own, Merlin."

Merlin just shrugged. "Okay, _fancy_ magic, then."

Although Merlin didn't have to be so _annoying_ about it.

"Merlin—"

And then, finally, Merlin began to crumble. "You wouldn't understand, Arthur, and I'm not just saying that to irritate you. They only way that I can think of to explain it involves a lot of words in a language in which you are most certainly _not_ fluent. So just…trust me. I'm not worried about how we're going to find our way, and I don't think that you should be either."

Anger suddenly flared back up in Arthur, efforts at calmness abandoned, and he was almost dizzied by the frenzy with which his emotions seemed to be shifting. Merlin wasn't worried? How much of a _fool_ did he think that Arthur was?

"Don't _lie_ to me, Merlin. I think there's been enough of that in the past, don't you?"

"I'm not lying!" Merlin glared at him furiously, the fire in his eyes almost too intense for Arthur to notice the slight blush in his cheeks. Arthur was almost ashamed of himself—it was a low blow to throw Merlin's past deceptions back in his face, now that Arthur had forgiven them.

But at that moment, Arthur didn't care. "Like hell you're not! You think that I can't tell when people are worried? I'm a _king!_ And you haven't exactly been looking your most tranquil over the last day and a half."

Merlin took a few steps toward Arthur. "Of course I'm _worried,_ Arthur, I'm not an idiot! I'm just not worried about _this._ What we find when we get there? _That's_ what I'm worried about, so don't start throwing temper tantrums every time that you don't understand something, because I don't have the patience to deal with two dozen of them every day."

Arthur stood his ground. "Do you think that you're making me feel better? Going on and on about how scared _you_ are about the magic that's waiting wherever it is that we're going?"

Merlin actually _laughed. _"I'm not trying to make you feel better, Arthur! I'm trying to treat you like an adult. I'm sorry if that's too much for you, _sire._ Maybe we should have brought Robert along so that you could have a servant to nurse you through every little ailment while _I_ figure out what the hell we have to do."

Arthur wanted to punch him. "I didn't ask you to come, Merlin!"

Merlin snorted. "You wouldn't have made it ten miles from the castle without me. You probably wouldn't even have opened the note if I hadn't been there and done it for you. Don't _swell_ up like that, Arthur, it makes you look like a bullfrog. Of _course_ I came, you idiot. And you might as well get used to the idea that you won't make it there without me, let alone face _her._ That's how it's always been on these quests of ours, Arthur, and this time, it's going to be out in the open. So you go on being brave and honest and inspirational and all the things that you do best and have kept me around and by your side for the past eight years, and I'll do what I can to eke us by to live another day. Call me a liar and stew on how just it was that you banished me and remember all of the wrongs done you by magic—don't look at me like that, I'm not _denying_ them—all you want. Just…do it in your head and try to keep your head on straight and try to remember that I'm not your manservant and for heaven's sake, get on the damn dragon."

Arthur paused before retorting, the bile gone out of him with such unnatural immediacy that he felt a strange emptiness within him for a moment, before he picked up on the little thing that Merlin had snarled at him that changed everything. '_Her,'_ Merlin had said. From the redness in his face and the ineloquence of his speech, Arthur knew that Merlin had been just shouting whatever slur against Arthur that happened to pop into his head. He probably hadn't even registered…

"Who's 'her?'" asked Arthur, quietly, not for the first time thinking of how similar his relationship with Merlin could sometimes be to the relationship he'd once had with Morgana, before it had all gone to hell and when they'd thought each other _surrogate _siblings and loved each other accordingly. They could fight and argue and rage at each other until they were blue in the face...until something truly important arose, and they forgave each other without a second thought.

"What?" snapped Merlin, still looking angry, but surprise at Arthur's suddenly calmer tone apparently mollified him somewhat.

"You said that I would need you with me to face 'her.'"

"Oh," said Merlin, and paused just long enough for Arthur to begin to wonder. Did Merlin really have the same suspicions that he did? They had rather conspicuously avoided discussing who the sender of the scroll might have been, other than a few frustrated complaints that it probably wouldn't have _killed_ whoever it was to include a signature. Arthur knew who he thought it was, but he hadn't wanted to say it, because if he said it, Merlin might agree, and then it would be _true_ because he trusted Merlin despite everything, and Arthur didn't want it to be true, even after all these years that she had been gone and all of the things that she had done…he didn't want her to have to die…

But Merlin just shook his head, his hesitation passed. "It doesn't matter who 'her' is. I was just ranting, Arthur, and I picked a pronoun. Whoever it is, I can handle it, no problem. We're meant to succeed, Arthur, you and I. And I've never really one to question destiny. I _know_ that we'll win this one."

Arthur just looked at him, sadness creeping into his heart as he looked at Merlin's expression, confident and bland and harmless and respectful and semi-amused, a neutral smile so friendly and eyes so oblivious that they almost appeared vacant, and so very dreadfully _familiar_ that it was devastating, because Arthur knew what that expression meant. He'd seen it on the young man's face nearly every day during the first six years in which they had known each other, and it was only after he'd learned of the lengths to which Merlin's had gone to conceal his magic that he had figured it out. Yes, Arthur knew what that expression meant.

Merlin was lying.

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**I have the outline for the whole story finished, and it's pretty lengthy, so I hope that that's a good thing rather than a bad one! In case it's not obvious, Arthur's and Merlin's chapters are my favorites to write (my favorite relationship in the show), so those might end up increased. This is going to be a long one, I think! And since it's summer and I have a pretty mindless job, the updates should be pretty frequent, especially now that I have it outlined. There are some big confrontation scenes that I'm kind of excited about, so I might end up hurrying up so that I can get to them! **

**Thank you for reading, and I adore reviews! **


	5. The Long Reach Of The Dark Hand

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine.**

Merlin was beginning to worry about Arthur.

Merlin was beginning to worry about Arthur and, as he spent most of his waking hours sitting still atop a dragon, he had plenty of time to think about it. And this day was no different.

In this way, at least.

Arthur had always been the brave one on their various missions into the forest—steadfast, confident, determined. Not that Merlin had been a coward—despite Arthur's frequent accusations to the contrary, Merlin had always known that he had his own share of bravery. Arthur just couldn't know about it...because it was illegal.

But Arthur was always in charge, and Arthur being in charge always gave Merlin the freedom to inquire about what they were doing so that Arthur could be sure of his details, to point out the inconsistencies to at the very least get them on the same page, to complain about being tired to remind Arthur that _he_ needed sleep as well and that even a prince could not march on for days on end without respite by sheer will power alone. Arthur had been in charge and kept them motivated and kept them going; Merlin had been his second, and he kept them functioning. It was a good combination, and it _worked. _

But what they were doing now was _not_ working. Merlin wasn't sure what it was—Merlin's elevation from manservant, the fact that they were questing on Arthur's personal behalf rather than for the good of the kingdom and that they might die for it, that their method of travel was one over which he had no control and with which he was uncomfortable, that neither of them knew what they were going to face and both of them knew that they did not agree on it, that Arthur had believed Merlin when he'd claimed with far too much bluntness that Arthur would be all but useless in the fight against whatever foe they faced when they arrived at their destination, that they honestly _didn't _know where they were going, that he and Merlin had been arguing more than they had been getting along for some inexplicable reason that neither had been able to identify—but _something_ wasn't working as it used to. Arthur seemed just…tired. He had been growing, steadily, more and more lethargic and unmotivated and quiet and, worst of all, _forgetful._

At first, Merlin had been afraid that something was legitimately wrong with Arthur, that something in his body was beginning to fail him and his mind was fading away and that Merlin didn't know how to stop it. He'd gone so far as to stop insinuating that Arthur was half an idiot whenever he got annoyed with him.

Then, Merlin had noted something that both reassured and angered him. During the few moments over the past three days of travel, as he had grown more and more distant, when Arthur had become animated, his memory had become perfect, his mind as sharp as it had ever been, his determination blazing in his face with such fervor that Merlin was reminded why Arthur was meant to be a king.

But then it would be time to get on the dragon again, and his eyes would glaze over, and Arthur would give into the thoughts and worries that kept him far away from where he was riding, hundreds of feet in the air, on the back of a creature that he had been raised to despise. Arthur had learned that dragons were not inherently bad and were creatures to be treated with respect in the months since Merlin had returned to Camelot, but Merlin knew perfectly well that it took more than half of a year to overcome an aversion that had lasted for nearly thirty. Arthur hated riding on that dragon, and if he kept disappearing inside of himself every time that they climbed onto his back, he would never get used to it. He would learn to appreciate the genuine _fun_ in the experience.

Over the previous three days that they had spent in flight after their argument in the forest, Merlin had grown more and more anxious to reach their destination. By the fifth, as they flew, the anxiety was reaching a breaking point, and he almost felt sick with it. He was in no hurry to face what he knew was waiting for them, but he felt that a few more hours every day with his feet on the ground would do a great deal to bring Arthur back into himself. They would be more exhausted by the time that the sun set and their journey would have been lengthened significantly, but Arthur would have had to put one foot in front of the other, over and over again, dodging branches and hopping ditches and finding ways to cross rivers and rolling his eyes as he had to stop to yank Merlin to his feet after he had inevitably tripped on something. Arthur would have needed to be _present._

Merlin needed Arthur to be present. He had learned, to his dismay and slight embarrassment, that, at times like this, he could not lead nearly as well as Arthur could. He'd always been confident in his skills as a sorcerer, and he knew that_ had_ led to a bit of arrogance when it came to other areas, especially as he grew better and better at harnessing his powers. And, as he had learned during his travels whilst banished, with his encounters with other groups of sorcerers, he was rather capable at garnering loyalty. He had received pledges of allegiance from _scores_ of them with such relatively little effort that he had been somewhat alarmed at first. When they had seen his magic and connected him to their prophecies, it was usually "Emrys this" and "Emrys that." Yes, when it came to magic, he could lead. He was comfortable. But when it came to this little journey, with camping and hiking and a man who was _not_ magical, Merlin was stuck. He could have been Arthur's _second_ in an instant, even in the face of a horde. But now, he needed Arthur to step up and demand to give orders and be a general prat about it, take the role established so many years ago, so that Merlin could take _his_ role and question and pick apart and prepare. When it came to the two of them in a situation like _this,_ they needed to stick with what they knew, even if Merlin refused to act as a servant again. But Arthur was somewhere else and going through the motions, and so they were fighting and tired and tense and all but _silent_ with each other, and Merlin knew damn well that they didn't stand a chance against whatever they were seeking if they didn't start working together as a _team_, as they were so capable. He'd had such hopes, even in the darkness of what they were facing, that they could take their parts and be _equals _in the acknowledgment of their equal, if different, necessities. _  
_

But he didn't know how to make it happen. He'd considered smacking Arthur in the face on several occasions, but only about half of those had been out of a desire to snap him out of his lethargy. The other half were just because Merlin was annoyed with him.

So Merlin was beginning to worry about Arthur, and he could not deny that he somewhat resented Arthur for it.

As if Merlin hadn't _already_ had enough to worry about!

But, despite their snippiness with each other and despite Arthur's listlessness and despite how much they _both_ would have benefited from a good day's hike and campfire conversation, Merlin had too much faith in Arhur to abandon the goal and admittedly primitive plan that they had set back in the beginning when they had still been the formidable unit that was keeping the newly lawful coexistence between magic and non-magic at a tentative peace by the sheer force of their well-known friendship. Merlin believed too much in Arthur and believed too much in the need for haste in this journey for him to delay for _too_ long. He _had_ begun starting an hour later than they had on that first full day of flight and they _were_ now landing for the night an hour or so before sundown. Wouldn't that be enough?

He figured that the two hours off would make up for themselves if he and Arthur—and Aithusa, for that matter—improved from the extra rest.

Besides, he'd had something of a scare himself. Since Arthur didn't seem to be paying much attention to the land below them, looking for landmarks of any sort that might point them on their way, Merlin alone had had to take up _that_ duty without much of any respite. He hadn't bothered to complain to Arthur about it, though; Arthur was still so squeamish about flying that Merlin wasn't sure that he would be able look down at the ground from their height for very long without having something of a breakdown. Merlin figured that, even if Arthur had been the most alert person in the five kingdoms, this particular duty still would have been his own.

Still, by the time that the afternoon rolled around each day, Merlin's eyes were just about worn out, and he feared that he was beginning to see things that were not there and sense things that could not possibly be real. Feel things that he should not be feeling. He would get the strange tingling that he often experience when in the presence of powerful magic, but he always had to dismiss it. He often got such feelings from Aithusa, especially when he was tired. Merlin had grown to equate it to magical perspiration. It was nothing, certainly.

He also attributed some of the phantom sensations—for surely they were phantom—to a guilty conscience. He shouldn't have done it, and he knew it. Part of him wondered if Arthur sensed that he was being dishonest about something—again—and _that_ was contributing to their current distance with one another. Merlin told himself that _this_ was for Arthur's own good. It didn't really matter that he had told himself the same thing so many times in the past to justify his lies. This time was different. Wasn't it?

It wasn't like Arthur had ever _asked_ him about it or anything. And they hadn't exactly gone into any lengthy discussions of what they had packed. They might have, were they speaking as usual, out of sheer boredom by that point, but even if Merlin hadn't felt guilty about what he had brought with him, it still would have been a sticky subject for him. He had forgotten the Sidhe staff that he had acquired so many years ago. His knowledge of spellwork and his ability to control his powers without the need to channel them through such an item had increased to a point that he'd been known to forget that he possessed the damn thing. But if he was wounded or tired or barely conscious, he thought that maybe it would have allowed him to channel his powers enough to remain dangerous, even if he could not speak or move well enough to do what he truly _could._ It was such a stupid thing to forget. It's not like it was _heavy_ or anything…

So he was not particularly anxious to discuss what they had each packed in their personal bags. He didn't think that Arthur would have particularly cared that Merlin had forgotten the Sidhe staff; now that he thought about it, he wasn't even sure if Arthur _knew_ that he possessed such an item. But then there was that other thing…

Merlin hadn't even opened it. Part of it was that he had memorized the damn thing after he'd read it the first time—the contents _were_ rather memorable—and part of it was a fear that, no matter how secluded a spot that he might have found to examine it, he was afraid that Arthur would see him with it, and _that_ would probably lead to an even bigger fight than the one they'd had on that first morning.

It was a copy of the scroll.

It was _the _copy of the scroll.

Merlin just hadn't felt right leaving without it. He'd known that Gwaine—and Guinevere—needed to have it with them, but where he and Arthur were going…what if they needed it for something? What if she demanded to see it, as proof that they were who they said they were? What if they needed it as some sort of key to enter wherever it was that they were going? What if it had been enchanted to reword itself or catch flame or _something_ to tell them when they were in the right place?

They were flimsy excuses, and he knew it. But when he looked at the scroll, alone with it after Arthur had gone to fetch some supplies that would be easier granted to the king rather than an underling and with the instructions to find a way to leave it for Guinevere to find in the morning, after they were gone, he'd felt a strange need to keep it with him.

Something about the parchment, strange under his fingers…the wax of the seal, broken but gleaming so strangely in the candlelight, suddenly flickering, even though there was no breeze or movement in the corridor…the ink that glistened as though wet, yet dry to the touch…

It was only after he heard a loud _bang_ at the opposite end of the corridor that he'd looked up and seen that the candles were so much lower than they had been when he'd noticed their sudden flickering…he'd been standing there for much longer than he'd thought. Just...standing there. And staring. There was something about this scroll, some magic so very powerful that even _he_ could not decipher easily, magic that felt sinister and fascinating and seductive all at once.

So he'd found a sheet of plain parchment and a candle and experimented until he managed a spell that transferred the contents of the original note onto the fresh. After a few more minutes, he managed to find a way to replicate the original wax seal. Then he had rolled up the original and sealed it, trying to conceal its genuine identity, and tucked it into his bag, and taking the new scroll in his hand. He broke the new seal and, as he began to traverse the corridors, began rolling and unrolling in his hands, trying to give it the look of being read and reread, opened and reopened. Trying to make it look like it was exactly what Merlin said it was.

When he'd tracked down Gwaine and given him the new scroll, he had been far too full of adrenaline and nerves to feel any guilt. When he'd climbed onto Aithusa's back, he was too frustrated with how long it had taken to talk Arthur into doing the same to feel any guilt. When they had taken flight from the roof of the castle and soared north into the night, he had been too exhilarated and too high from the rush of what they had just done to feel any guilt. When he had noticed the look on Arthur's face, he had been too conflicted between amusement and concern that the king would fall right off of the dragon to feel any guilt. When they had finally landed, he had been too busy pestering Arthur into gathering firewood and then starting the fire to feel any guilt. When they had eaten a meager meal and tried to find comfortable places to sleep for the night, he'd been too tired to feel any guilt. But when he laid himself down and shut his eyes, it had hit him.

The shame.

The guilt.

It felt far too familiar...

Yet why should he feel guilty? It was just a note. It was just words. Words were nothing. So what if he wanted to have them with him? It made sense. It wasn't irrational or anything, like the little voice in the back of head kept trying to tell him. What if they needed the summons with them? It made sense.

Which didn't exactly explain why he didn't want to tell Arthur what he had done.

But then there was the other thing. There was magic in that scroll. He knew it, even if he couldn't explain it. And it wasn't good magic. He felt _that,_ at least. Maybe if he kept it with him, if he had it with him for long enough, it would come to him, and he'd understand. At the very least, it was probably a good idea not to leave a scroll created with darker magic than he'd ever dared to try in a castle of innocents, with no magical protector within the walls to combat any ill that might come out of it. What did it matter if they had a fake? They had the _words,_ and that was all that they would need.

Still…he felt that Arthur ought to know. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He felt exactly as he had for such a long time, once he was three years, four years, _six_ years into his friendship with Arthur. By the time that he felt that he could tell him, it was too late for forgiveness. He'd been lying about it too long. The best that he'd been able to do with _that_, his biggest and most terrible secret, was to keep lying and keep deceiving and just delay the awful and inevitable day that Arthur would finally find out or, for heaven's sake, _figure_ it out. Merlin knew that he was lucky, so very lucky, with the way that he had emerged from _that_ ordeal without having lost much of anything beyond six months of exile, and even those had been profitable. He was so very lucky that Arthur was not Uther. But he wasn't sure if he could get away with it again, the lying. And not when the stakes were this high. Arthur could only tolerate so much, and Merlin could not resent him for it. He wasn't sure if he deserved to get away with it again.

So he kept the scroll secret and hidden and untouched in his bag, secure in the knowledge that Arthur seemed to be lacking in the motivation to properly roll out his own blanket every night, let alone work up the curiosity to root around Merlin's belongings. Merlin kept his secret.

And he did not sleep.

So he was fairly sure that it was the secrecy and the sleeplessness and the guilt that were making him see things that could not be there. Besides, staring into sunshine for ten hours every day could _not_ have been good for him.

Anyway, the things that he thought that he was seeing just didn't make sense. For one thing, he thought that he saw shadows racing each other below the canopy of the trees below them, large and small, four-legged and six-legged and eight-legged and even _two_-legged, all racing south as they flew north. But _those_ had to be tricks of the sunlight.

And then there was that instant when he'd glanced behind him, as he did every half hour or so, just to make sure that Arthur didn't look like he was about to fall off, when he'd sworn that he'd seen a thick sheaf of parchment _chasing_ them on the bag of the dragon. Of course, his heart had leapt and _he'd_ nearly fallen off of Aithusa's back, sure that it was a letter from Guinevere and Gwaine, no doubt full of indignance and insults and questions, but a _letter_. Contact. He could almost swear that he could see the purple wax of the seal.

But then he knew that it couldn't be real. For one thing, the thing that he thought that he saw following them was sagging in the air rather than soaring, as the letters that he'd both magically sent and received always did, no matter how heavy they were, no matter how fast Merlin was racing on horseback, no matter how wet they became. They always _zoomed_, as he was always proud to see. That had been a difficult trick of magic, even if it seemed so insignificant, to enchant the candle's sealing wax to always find him.

But this phantom sheaf of paper was shuddering and dipping up and down in the air; the purple wax that he thought he saw was beginning to drip down into the air, as though suddenly heated; the individual pieces of parchment separating and drifting apart from one another, thrown about in every direction from the windstream that followed Aithusa's flight. Then, very suddenly, the pieces of parchment that were not there had suddenly crumbled into ashes with a _poof_ of smoke, dark and black and distant, as though the pages had burnt into nothingness without any fire.

_That_ vision had shaken Merlin, and he'd had such a headache that had to be from squinting in that direction that he'd ordered Aithusa to take them down several hours earlier than he'd planned. It was bad enough that Arthur was not himself; if Merlin began to lose track of what they were doing, he wasn't sure if they would ever get where they were going.

Then there was the next day, when he'd been so overcome by shivers that he'd almost had to lash himself to Aithusa, for fear of shaking too violently to maintain his hold on the dragon's back. The weakness in his grip had frightened him terribly, and he suddenly felt pressure on his body from everything that was touching him, his clothes, his boots, the waterskein that he'd taken to tying about his neck, the pack on his back that contained all of his belongings, the hardness of Aithusa's skin below him…it came as almost a relief the next morning, as they had taken to the sky, when he'd found that he couldn't really feel any of his limbs at all.

But all of these ailments were all in his head, he knew. He was thinking as clearly as ever; it was just that his guilt was affecting him, and _that_ was what was affecting his body. It was all in his head, and so what if he'd never heard of guilt manifesting itself thusly before? So what if it had never happened in any of his six years of lying to Arthur about significantly more than a smuggled scroll? It was in his head, surely.

Admittedly, the nosebleed that he'd gotten _that_ evening had not been imaginary, but all in all, he was glad of it. Of course, Aithusa wasn't grateful that Merlin had dripped blood onto the whiteness of his back—he could be as vain as Arthur sometimes, Merlin swore—and after Arthur had gotten a fire going all by himself and Merlin had noticed by the firelight the brown splotched stains on his tunic and neckerchief, he hadn't been particularly pleased with himself. But the nosebleed had done more good than bad, he thought. When Arthur had actually noticed Merlin wavering in front of him on Aithusa's back and seen the blood on his face, he had livened immediately and scrambled forward, despite the height that usually rendered him motionless, and held Merlin still, ordering Aithusa to descend with the authority that had been so lately missing from his voice, and then there was Aithusa actually _listening_ to Arthur…yes, as far as bloody body parts went, _that_ was a good one.

Of course, Arthur had gone right back to being difficult the next morning—_this _morning, now that Merlin thought about it–even if he _was_ somewhat more alert. Merlin had been optimistic—Arthur had gotten up without complaint and stoked up the fire on his own. For a moment, as he moved closer to the growing flames, Merlin wondered if Arthur was sick. Merlin was shivering under all of the layers of the clothing that he'd brought with him, but he could see Arthur _sweating_ as he tossed more wood onto the fire. But Arthur was moving about energetically and Merlin just figured that Arthur had had a particularly interesting dream that was lingering.

But apparently, rousing himself quickly and stoking the fire was as far as Arthur's generosity went for the day, because it was _immediately_ after they sat down on the forest floor that Arthur proposed taking a day off, saying strangely carefully that they both could use a break. Merlin, who hadn't slept well, argued that neither of them were in any shape to spend the day hiking. He knew, having woken frequently in the night, that Arthur had been upright for a good portion of it, facing the fire that burned between where Arthur had lain his blanket and where Merlin was trying to sleep, eyes wide and watchful. Merlin hadn't understood that, but if _neither_ of them had slept, he said dully, it was better to just get up on the dragon and try not to talk to each other, if their conversation the _last_ time that they'd been sleepless had been any indication.

But Arthur had kept arguing for the day off, although his voice was rather softer than it usually was when they argued. He had even refused to eat more than a mouthful of his breakfast, shoving the rest at Merlin for _him_ to eat. Merlin had obliged as best he could—he hadn't been very hungry for the last few days, which he attributed to the lack of physical activity. But Merlin ate Arthur's breakfast, mostly because, if this was Arthur's way of spiting Merlin for refusing to loaf around and do nothing all day, it was not his most intelligent method.

Besides, Arthur eventually agreed after Merlin threatened to take off and fly on his own, and _Arthur_ could walk if he wanted to. Merlin had been surprised that Arthur had given in so easily-the most that Merlin would have done was to fly out of sight for a few minutes before coming back, just to teach Arthur a lesson. But Arthur had been strangely adamant that Merlin not fly alone, so Merlin had, with a great deal of satisfaction, eaten all of Arthur's breakfast with as much gusto as he could manage.

Of course, Merlin threw it all back up again a few hours later, his stomach heaving suddenly, but Arthur was sitting in front of him on Aithusa's back today, having rather unexpectedly and insistently volunteered to watch for landmarks for the very first time, and he hadn't seen. Aithusa hadn't seemed to notice either, which was fortunate, for he had sided with Arthur on taking the day off. But Merlin was a Dragonlord. Arguments with Aithusa tended to end much more quickly than with Arthur. He wasn't a Kinglord, after all. Unfortunately.

_Kinglord_…that was funny.

That was funny!

Oh, if only that were a real thing!

Arthur would probably appreciate that.

Kinglord…

Merlin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, which shook slightly at the motion, and laughed aloud. He tried to reach forward to tap Arthur on the back, trying to share the joke. He would have shouted for him, for some reason feeling that it was very important that Arthur hear the joke just then, but the wind shear must have been very loud that day, even though Merlin had given in to Arthur's demand that they fly lower that day, because Arthur hadn't heard him any of the times that Merlin had tried to catch his attention in the last few hours, although Merlin could not for the life of him remember why. Arthur _had_ been periodically glancing backward at him for some reason, but he wasn't doing it now. So Merlin resolved to tap him.

Unfortunately, he found that he was having trouble leaning forward to grab at Arthur's shoulder. When had his pack gotten so heavy? He could barely sit up with the weight of it. He must have packed in the wrong order that morning, that would explain it. Bad luck. He really needed Arthur to hear the joke before he forgot it. What was it again?

Merlin put his hand back down on Aithusa's back, trying to steady himself before he made another grab for Arthur. He looked down and noticed for the first time that his hand was all but blending in with Aithusa's skin. That was strange. It was very…what was it?

_Kinglord,_ that's what it was.

No, it wasn't.

That was the joke for Arthur.

Merlin laughed at it again, but his laugh turned into a choke, but that was okay because it made sense. He leant to the side as best he could, momentarily dizzied, and threw up for the second time.

This time, however, Arthur must have heard. He whipped his head around so quickly that Merlin was dimly surprised that he didn't slide right off of Aithusa. Arthur shouldn't have done that, Merlin thought, he shouldn't have looked away. Arthur was supposed to be watching for landmarks, so that they could find where they were going. Arthur was supposed to be helping. Arthur was supposed to be focusing on the ground below them, not on Merlin. He was doing it all wrong.

Merlin opened his mouth to yell at him.

Instead, he said, "Kinglord."

Arthur did not seem to get the joke, because he did not laugh, and Arthur would have laughed if he got it. Merlin wasn't even sure that he had heard what Merlin had said, because instead of answering, Merlin watched placidly as Arthur turned very white very quickly and then began to slide sideways off of Aithusa's back. Merlin opened his mouth to warn him, but all that came out was a laugh. _Kinglord._ It was funny.

It was only when Arthur spun swiftly and lunged backward, heedless of their position in the sky, arms reaching toward him that Merlin realized that Arthur _wasn't _actually falling off of the dragon. Which was good.

It was only when Arthur missed in his desperate reach for Merlin that Merlin realized that _he_ was the one who was sliding off of the dragon.

That was funny. Merlin was the last Dragonlord, and he was falling off of a dragon. That was pretty funny. Merlin was pretty sure that he had never heard something so funny. What kind of Dragonlord was he if fell off of a dragon? He'd have to tell his father when he got the chance. Balinor would understand that it was funny. Arthur didn't seem to find it amusing, though. At least, that wasn't the expression that he always wore when he thought something was funny. This was a different expression. It looked familiar.

Merlin opened his mouth to ask Arthur what was wrong.

Instead, he laughed.

And then he fell.

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**Thank you for reading! Reviews are much appreciated. **


	6. A Flash, A Strike, And The Stricken

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine. **

Merlin was dead.

Merlin had fallen from a dragon, something that he'd assured Arthur would never happen to _him,_ laughing, and now he was dead.

Arthur cursed himself as he forced his way through the branches and ditches and underbrush that impeded him, not having the awareness to try to dodge them. Merlin had been sick. He'd _known_ it. Merlin had been growing paler and paler over the past few days and, when Arthur had woken that morning, to sunshine and still air and a pleasant warmth, his first thought was that he was glad for the nice weather. His second thought, as he sat up and brushed aside the clod of dirt that Merlin had thrown at him to wake him, and as he caught sight of Merlin for the first time, was that something was dreadfully wrong. Merlin, always pale, was dreadfully white, and Arthur could see that he was wearing every article of clothing that he'd brought with him. And still he shivered. So Arthur had hurried himself up and stoked the fire and made Merlin eat breakfast for two and made the case for them to take the day off of flying. He was as anxious as Merlin to reach their destination, if not more, but Merlin dying of infection or whatever was ailing him wasn't exactly going to help. But Merlin hadn't agreed and been emotionally manipulative enough that Arthur found himself on top of the damn dragon not a half hour later, hating himself for not finding a way to convince Merlin otherwise, and now Merlin was dead, and what did it matter if Arthur hadn't yet been able to find the body? Merlin was surely dead.

Arthur swore aloud as he stumbled over a stone and fell to the forest floor, his palms stinging. Merlin had picked a hell of a place to fall off the dragon, Arthur thought. The trees were thick and massive, so he probably had hit a few on his way down; Arthur had heard the howling of wolves, so Merlin was probably being _eaten_; the dirt on the ground was riddled with pebbles and thin above what seemed to be a layer of _rock_—Arthur could not figure out how the hell the trees were growing anyway—so Merlin was probably _splattered_ wherever he was, and now Arthur couldn't _find_ him and how was it that Merlin was finding ways to be difficult, even in death?

Arthur gave a thick and bitter laugh, wiping furiously at his eyes and face with his sleeve. Breaking down wouldn't help anyone just now, he knew. He would find Merlin and light a fire to signal Aithusa that he'd found Merlin, the dragon unable to find a place to land and the forest clearly so dry that any attempts to burn himself a clearing that he was more likely to burn the whole thing down than he was to be any help. Then, Arthur reasoned, _then_ he could break down.

But first he had to find Merlin and, as he had discovered the first time that he had been faced with the prospect of tracking him down somewhere in the woods, ages ago after he'd exiled him, forests had the unfortunate tendency to be big. He and Aithusa had done what they could to estimate where Merlin had fallen—there had been several moments of panicky attempts at conversation between the two of them in the air, during which a frightened and confused Aithusa was all but rolling over in the air, and during which Arthur was so busy trying not to fall off and trying to focus and figure out what the hell happened next that they had lost their bearings. After they had semi-calmed themselves, they had made their best guess, and Aithusa had flown as low as he dared over the canopy to drop Arthur down to begin the sad search.

Up until that point, Arthur had tricked himself into maintaining that perhaps _somehow_, Merlin was still alive. After all, Aithusa had been insisting over the last few days that they were flying deeper and darker into magical lands, that there was magic in the air. If they were in a magical forest, Arthur told himself, maybe it had saved Merlin. Maybe it had bouncy or soft ground designed to cushion to falls of any sorcerers in flight.

Or maybe that was ridiculous.

But Arthur had maintained his hope with such steadfast desperation that, as he had crashed through the trees and landed with no small amount of pain onto the forest floor below him, he had had to sit still for a few moments to deal with the fact that, if Arthur had gotten so banged up by a drop from _just_ above the treetops, there was no way that Merlin could have survived _his_ fall, no matter how magically bouncy the ground may have been. So he'd sat, legs splayed out in front of him, eyes squinting in the unrelenting sunlight, and absorbed the fact that Merlin was dead.

Then he'd gotten up and started walking.

And he'd walked.

And he'd walked.

And he'd walked for so long, hoping strangely that that this supposedly "magical" forest would somehow just…_lead_ him to Merlin's body as he made his turns at random, that he began to think that he would never find him. And he began to wonder whether or not he felt relieved by that possibility. He was holding himself together, barely, with the knowledge of what he would find whenever he found him. But actually finding him? He might not do so well with that.

Then, very suddenly, staring at the ground as he walked, Arthur found a boot. He picked it up and looked at it curiously, almost cheerfully. This was a _goal._ A mission. A duty. He was good with duty. Duty before self, that's what important.

Then, a hundred feet further, there was Merlin's pack, still somehow intact. Wondering idly whether Merlin had magically fortified it or something, he picked it up and draped it around his own body.

Then, forty paces ahead of the pack, there was Merlin's neckerchief. A red one, he noticed. That meant that Merlin had been wearing a blue tunic. It was strange, he thought. He'd been trying, all throughout his desperate hike, to remember exactly what Merlin had been wearing that day. Yet he couldn't picture him. He'd seen Merlin nearly every day for nearly eight years, the six months of exile nonwithstanding. How could he possibly separate one of those countless days from another? Besides, Merlin always wore a variation of the same thing. Arthur had long suspected that Merlin's wardrobe actually consisted entirely of trousers, coat, and a random assortment of tunics and neckerchiefs.

The neckerchief was high above Arthur, stuck in the branches of a tree, and he had to climb halfway up the trunk before he could reach it, wincing and wavering the whole time. But it wasn't right to leave it there. Not one of the neckerchiefs, with _Merlin_ embroidered into the faded cloth with faded thread, lovingly stitched by a mother sending off her son into a world where she could not follow him and wanting to be with him somehow. He wouldn't be able to take Merlin back, Arthur knew, even assuming that he managed to survive this without Merlin by his side. But he could go to Ealdor, to Merlin's home, and give to his mother this neckerchief and whatever words that he could think of that might help her.

So Arthur plucked the neckerchief down and more or less fell back down to the ground, too shaken for any attempts at grace. He tucked it into his pocket, not wanting to look at it any longer yet wanting to give it every protection that he could, and he began walking again, eyes open for any more of Merlin's belongings that he may have lost when he had…any of the belongings that he might have dropped. Although how Merlin had managed to lose a laced-up _boot_ was beyond Arthur.

Then, through the branches of a tree, Arthur saw Merlin's tunic some thirty feet in front of him—blue, as he'd thought—and he almost laughed. Arthur began to trot downward, having been atop a rather slight hill from which he'd had a clear view of Merlin's crumpled shirt, shaking his head. Losing his tunic was even more explicable than a boot. How Merlin had managed _that_ was almost impressive, all things considered in the matter of—

Arthur stopped walking.

Merlin had not lost his shirt.

It was not Merlin's _shirt _that was crumpled.

Arthur had finally descended the hill and squeezed his way through the trees and stumbled his way over what seemed an unnatural amount of fallen limbs when he was finally close enough to see what he had not wanted to see.

No, Merlin had not lost his shirt. Merlin was _in_ his shirt. All that Arthur could see was the top of a bent knee jutting out of what seemed to be a ditch of some sort, a ditch in which he'd been able to see the blue of Merlin's blue tunic when he'd been atop the hill. No, Arthur had not found Merlin's shirt. He had found Merlin.

So Arthur braced himself up against a tree with one shaky arm and threw up, almost nothing in his stomach, but throwing up all the same. Then, he sat down heavily and stared ahead of him, through an unfortunate gap in the trees that gave him a perfect view of the vision ahead of him.

For several minutes, all that Arthur could see of the scene before him was that skinny knee in the dirty trousers, sticking up at an angle that could not have been comfortable for a man alive and unmoving.

Eventually, however, his eyes began to absorb more about what he saw before him. The brown of Merlin's trousered knee had been so easy to see because he had fall atop a very large slab of stone that must have had a hole in the center, for Merlin was clearly not lying on its surface, and even Arthur knew that Merlin's fall, while from plenty high enough to kill him, was certainly not nearly enough to so much as dent such a large piece of stone.

It wasn't the only stone, either. Merlin was in a clearing of sorts, and Arthur forced himself to stand up and take a few steps forward to get a better look. He walked carefully forward and put a hand on another stone next to him to steady himself.

There were rocks all around him—all around _them,_ he reminded himself—all sorts. There were large boulders, indistinctly shaped and all about the size of the stone from which he had drawn Excalibur, with a few flat slabs like the one that bore Merlin's body, although much smaller. The rocks were all clustered together so that Arthur had to stumble over them as he forced himself closer to Merlin's knee. There were only small patches of the forest floor below them, grass brown and thirsty, and certainly not enough of them to provide Arthur with any footholds. The only truly large gaps in the rocks were those around which the strangely crushed plants grew. Arthur couldn't figure how they were managing to grow at all in the midst of the rocks, although it wasn't a particularly _huge_ cluster; it was roughly in the shape of a circle, about the size of his chambers back in Camelot.

In the back of his mind, Arthur cursed Merlin for finding the only patch of rocks in the entire damn forest to fall onto from a hundred feet in the air. It was almost as though once he had decided that he was going to get himself killed, he figured that he might as well do the thing properly.

Not that it mattered if Merlin had fallen through the trees onto the forest _floor_. He wouldn't be any less dead. Not from that height.

Arthur felt himself fall backward and sat down again, somehow slipping on top of what should have been the rough and solid surface of a stone, dimly reflecting that he was never going to get this thing done if he had to keep stopping for breaks every time that he took more than a dozen steps forward. Then he winced, realizing that whatever he was sitting upon was distinctly uncomfortable, as far as seats went. Glancing down, he saw that he was sitting on a tree stump, jagged and splintery, as though it had simply fallen over very suddenly, and rather recently, if the sharpness was any indicator. Arthur stood up and examined it. From the pattern of the splinters, the tree must have fallen forward. Glad for the distraction, he turned forward toward the middle of the semi-circle of rocks and began to look for the tree trunk, pointedly avoiding looking at the knee in the center. But where was it?

Then Arthur discovered what he had slipped on, what had led him to fall onto a tree stump on his backside.

It was dust, brown and woodsy and pleasant smelling. There were shards of wood scattered in the mound of dust, twigs poking out halfheartedly. A chill running through his heart, Arthur, for the first time, took a clear look around the semi circle, and he realized.

They weren't only stones that he'd been tripping over. They had been tree stumps, scattered amongst the stones, covered with the wood dust that had tricked Arthur into believing them all rocks. Dust and splinters and dust and branches and dust and twigs and twisted patches of what must have once been leaves and dust…

The stumps, all identical in height, were in a circle surrounding the slab upon which Merlin had fallen, concentric to one another. The bark of the trees that had not fallen and were closest to the open circle, he saw with a nervous glance, were stripped of bark and pale in the harsh sunlight, as though a great wind or force of some sort had blown at them.

Arthur was breathing very heavily when he realized what must have happened when Merlin had hit the ground. He must not have died immediately. He had seen what Merlin had inadvertently done in his grief when Gaius had died—the entire castle had been all but trashed. In the throes of death…Arthur had a feeling that this had been a patch of trees just like any other in the forest, that Merlin had just fallen onto the rock. The rest was the force of a sorcerer of Merlin's power dying.

Arthur hoped that there were no animals present at the time. He had the feeling that there wouldn't have been any survivors.

Not for the first time, Arthur said a silent prayer of thanks that Merlin had never been angry enough with him to unleash his powers, simultaneously wishing that he'd been present to see it happen and feeling extraordinarily grateful that he would never have confirmation of the terrible visions in his head.

Suddenly finding the strength, Arthur shoved himself forward and climbed onto the huge slab of rock on which Merlin lay. As he stepped carefully forward, he found himself treading on pebbles of all different sizes, and he began to reevaluate his original belief that Merlin's ditch in the rock had been an act of nature. If Merlin had wreaked such destruction to the surrounding trees without even touching them, would it have been unreasonable to assume that he had driven himself down into the thick stone? The pebbles certainly supported _that_ theory.

Then, Arthur saw him, and he stopped moving.

Merlin was dead. He had to be dead. Arthur, feeling oddly disconnected, thought how normal Merlin looked. He was splayed out unnaturally, yes, but how many times had Arthur found Merlin either asleep on the job when he thought that Arthur wouldn't catch him, or inexplicably passed out, or pretending to be wounded so that Arthur wouldn't make him muck out the stables or go to knights' training or clean his armor? It almost seemed like a terrible cosmic joke that Merlin could look so normal yes at the same time, so...dead.

Weren't the dead supposed to look at peace? Arthur didn't think that Merlin looked at peace, but he could hardly blame him. If _he'd_ fallen a hundred feet from the back of a dragon, he didn't think that the final expression that would have been on _his_ face would have been particularly tranquil either. Besides, what was there to make him feel any peace? Merlin was too young and too good and too unfinished to receive such a mocking death.

Merlin had once called them two sides of the same coin. Arthur had laughed and told Merlin that not even his _wife _said things _that _girlish, but now Arthur could see a truth in the idea. Neither of them were at peace with Merlin dying. At least Arthur could agree with Merlin's final act.

He wished that Merlin could know. It was always somehow entertaining whenever they absolutely agreed on something. They tended to be either very good or very bad ideas.

Yes, he wished that he could tell Merlin.

At that moment, Arthur wished a lot of things.

Then, very suddenly, a bolt of lightning shot down from the heavens and struck the circle of sand of crushed rock in which Merlin lay, and Arthur fell back from his perch, shielding his eyes instinctively. He had just enough time to wonder why the universe seemed to be determined to make _absolutely_ sure that Merlin was dead before it began to rain around them, and a great wind began to blow, the branches of the trees behind him whipping so violently that he could not tell where one tree ended and the next began. In the back of his mind, he hoped that Aithusa had found a place to land. The sky, so recently blue and cloudless and so full of sunshine that it was almost painful to be without shade, was a such a shocking shade of black that Arthur felt completely exposed without shelter. The clouds were swirling ominously above them, the center seeming to have settled directly over them. Where the _hell_ had this come from?

Still, he began to struggle back toward Merlin, fighting against the wind but more determined than ever, rain mixing with perspiration mixing with tears on his face, streaming into his eyes so that he could hardly see. But he kept on. He couldn't just leave Merlin there, no matter that Merlin was past being bothered by such trivialities as weather, no matter that his body was no doubt burnt beyond recognition by the lightning strike, no matter that it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference to Merlin if Arthur made the effort…he couldn't just leave Merlin alone out there in the rain.

Slipping and sliding and tripping, Arthur finally regained his position a few feet before Merlin's ditch. He closed his eyes for a moment and took several deep breaths, not bothering to try to shield himself from the rain. There were more important things that he would have to try to shield himself from. This was going to be awful.

But Arthur was a king, and it didn't matter if he was alone and weeping and frightened and being battered by a storm that had come out of nowhere. He set his jaw and began to carefully inch his way closer, walking in a crouch and stabilizing himself with his hands. Bracing himself. Finally reaching the edge of the ditch, Arthur swallowed hard and peered into the circle.

There lay Merlin.

There lay Merlin, motionless and colorless and broken. He was dead. He had to be dead. His chest did not rise or fall; his limbs did not shift; his eyelids did not flutter. He didn't look like Merlin, almost, except that the universe seemed to have played a wicked joke on Arthur by somehow leaving Merlin's _face_ untouched and uninjured. But Merlin had to be dead. Arthur had seen corpses trampled by horses looking less bent and twisted than Merlin did. There was blood around him, although it looked strangely fresh, despite the fact that it had taken Arthur hours to find Merlin and that Merlin had surely been lying there for quite some time.

Arthur swallowed hard, glad that he had braced himself.

For there lay Merlin, completely dry. Arthur's first instinct, upon registering the impossibility, was that for some bizarre reason, the storm was _not_ raging in that small and very specific part of the forest. There were often random clear spots in the midst of storms; surely this was just a particularly tiny one. But no, that couldn't be. Water was falling _over_ Merlin and the sky above him was as fluidly black, rolling smokily, as over the rest of the forest. But Arthur could see it dripping down and then _stopping_, the rain being diverted from falling atop Merlin a good three feet above his body, and then streaming to every side, as though there was a great glass dome over his body, protecting him from the rain and distorting Arthur's vision of him.

Thunder crashed in the sky, alarmingly close, but Arthur did not notice.

For there lay Merlin, unrecognizable and unburnt. Arthur's first instinct was that he'd been mistaken, that the lightning had struck somewhere in the distance, that he'd been so panicked and filled with dread that he had envisioned Merlin being struck, injury added to the insult that was his death, that the only reason that there was no forest fire from the strike was because of the unexpected downpour. But that couldn't be. The sand upon which Merlin's body had been laying, reduced to its granular state by the force of what Arthur was sure had been Merlin's death throes, had turned to glass. It was rippled and lumpy with imperfection, and Arthur could see a few leaves and twigs petrified within, as though the sand had been superheated very suddenly. Yes, Merlin had been struck by lightning. His body may not have shown any sign, but when had Merlin ever behaved as he was meant to?

Arthur shivered. He was fairly accustomed to things not making a great deal of sense, but when it came to Merlin, those things tended to make him nervous.

But what was there for Merlin to make him nervous about? There he lay, unmistakably dead.

And Arthur did not know what to do.

He wished that Merlin would wake up, if only for an instant, to tell him.

Then, several things happened in the exact same instant.

There was a flash of lightning brighter than Arthur had ever seen, so very sudden and white that Arthur was nearly blinded.

A perfect circumference of trees that surrounded the rocks upon which Merlin had fallen from the sky _cracked_ with such a terrible noise Arthur wanted to cover his ears, large trees and small trees and trees so old and enduring that their trunks were wider than Arthur was tall. They fell sideways or backward or onto each other, branches locking together, the trunks crashing against each other, to form a sort of haphazard wall that surrounded Arthur and Merlin. Not a single branch or twig fell toward them, endangering them in the slightest. Arthur remained crouched and Merlin remained dead, unaffected by the havoc around them.

The rain began to swirl around them with such strange force that it fell nearly sideways, and it _hurt_ Arthur's face where it slapped him. The wind was carrying it all but horizontally, and Arthur felt his hair being whipped up and tangled above his head, his cloak billowing and twisting behind him. It was as though the wind was blowing in every single direction at once. Arthur had to struggle to tighten his hold and steady his stance. Merlin, underneath his invisible dome, was unaffected.

And then Merlin's corpse, the body so contorted and broken, the skin so gray and colorless, the limbs so unnaturally bent from a fall that no man could have hoped to survive, gave a twitch so violent that Arthur was sure that his spine would have snapped, had it not already been so damaged. Merlin's back arched up with such sudden force that, for half of a second, only his shoulders and feet remained planted on the glass below him.

Then, Merlin's back flattened once more, his body flopping down with such force that the glass cracked beneath him, a terrible sound audible over even the torrent of the storm, leading Arthur to irrationally wonder whether it had been the glass breaking or Merlin's back. His body seemed to deflate, sink into itself, the stiffness of a body dead seeming to leave him. His head lolled back against the glass, his fingers uncurled as best they could in their state, his exposed knee fell to the surface and lay next to its broken twin.

And then, in another flash of lightning that illuminated their small clearing, littered with rocks and soaked dust and a crying king and a dead sorcerer, all trapped—or protected—by the bizarre walls of tree trunks that had been felled around them, for a moment, in the disorienting discoloration of the world around him, Arthur was positive that he saw a flush in Merlin's face, a twitch of an eyelid, a tap of a toe.

Then, as the world righted itself and thunder replaced lightning and the spots faded from his vision, Arthur blinked rapidly, rubbing his eyes free of water and disbelief and despair and stared at the prone body in front of him, the face white again and body once more flat, motionless.

Merlin was dead.

Merlin was dead, and there was nothing that Arthur could do but remain by his side, growing soaked in the rain as Merlin remained dry beneath his invisible dome, run the risk of being struck by lightning and certainly not enduring unscathed as had Merlin's body, to shiver and shudder with a thousand different kinds of cold, wait for the torrent to stop, wait for the world to stop ending…to view the stillness against the violence of the background, to pay the fallen sorcerer the respect of a rather unwise vigil, to watch nothing happen for as long as it took…

And then, sitting in the rain, Arthur saw Merlin's chest rise.

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	7. A Clash Of Two Worlds

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine.**

Arthur had never been more frightened in his life.

Everything about the situation was alien to him, each aspect so familiar on its own but completely nonsensical when taken together. It was as though every single coincidence capable of coinciding had concurred, and Arthur did not fit in. He felt like an intruder on something so important and so unknown and so unbelievable that he was not the sort of man who ought to be witnessing it. He was no expert in sorcery, but he had to suspect that _this_ sort of thing did not happen to every man of magic who happened to fall from a great height.

No, there was no way that this was normal, Arthur thought with a shiver, and the fact that the only person who could have confirmed or denied this belief was currently lying on his back and having fits just made it all worse. This was not Arthur's world, and he did not belong there. He just wished that he was not so alone. Someone else, someone more knowledgeable, someone who would _understand_ ought to be the one bearing witness. Not Arthur. He felt scared and stupid and inadequate and so insignificant that he wished that he was enough of a coward to try to flee from what was happening.

Merlin was having fits.

Merlin was having fits, and Arthur found himself wishing that he had paid more attention to Merlin's occasional ramblings about this and that to do with medicine, which had increased in frequency since Gaius had died. He thought that he remembered Merlin mentioning something about how it was important to put something between the teeth of a man having a fit, to keep him from biting his lip or gnashing his teeth or swallowing his tongue or something like that. He was fairly certain that he ought to be holding Merlin _still, _at the very least. From the violence of they jerks of Merlin's body, Arthur could tell that he wouldn't have stood a chance at holding Merlin _down,_ but he could have at least helped to keep Merlin from smashing his head on anything particularly solid and that ought not to be recommended for head smashing. Just to be able to _touch_ him, to reassure himself that Merlin was really alive and _there_ and to maybe, just maybe, grant some small amount of comfort via friendly contact.

But he couldn't.

Arthur sat on the cold stone upon which Merlin had fallen, as close to the young man as he could manage, his wet cloak rather ineffectually wrapped around him, the hood pulled down over his face, low enough that it prevented the rain from dripping directly into his eyes but leaving him with plenty of space in which to watch the tableaux unfolding before him, unable to do anything else.

Merlin was having another fit, and Arthur fought the now-familiar urge to either rush forward to try to somehow help or to close his eyes and pretend that he was somewhere else that _also_ happened to be cold and wet and unpleasant yet lacking in close personal friends having health crises just beyond his reach.

For Arthur could not reach him. The invisible dome, whatever it was, that was keeping Merlin dry and for which Arthur had become very grateful once it had become clear that the rain was not going to be stopping any time soon, proved to have something of an inconvenient downside. While it was very effective at keeping the rain and wind and blowing debris from battering at Merlin where he lay, it turned out to be equally effective at keeping Arthur from getting within five feet of his friend.

So Arthur had to just _sit_ there and endure Merlin's terrible twitchings, unable to do so much as remain _truly _by his side. Arthur was no physician, but he could not help but believe that perhaps it would help Merlin to just have a friendly presence beside him, even if that particular friendly presence had no idea what the hell was going on. If there was only anything that he could do to stop this…

Arthur watched dully as Merlin's body grew rigid again, his limbs beginning to seize up and his jaw beginning to clench. Despite the frequency with which Arthur had been witnessing these episodes over the past few hours, after that first shock of seeing Merlin actually _inhale_ had begun to fade away, the same anxiety stabbed at his heart that panged him the very first time as he saw Merlin's chest stop moving and his breathing ceased. Merlin would be growing blue in a moment, Arthur knew, and he wanted to look away.

Arthur had never seen anyone have a fit before, so he was unsure if these were the regular sort of fits that regular sorts of people had or whether they were special magical fits specifically designed to be particularly horrifying. Either way, it was awful. Between his fear for Merlin's life and his uncertainty as to whether or not this dance with death that he seemed to be undergoing alone beneath his invisible protection was _normal_ for a man of Merlin's powers…Arthur desperately wanted something to _do. _

Especially since he had gotten so close to accomplishing something…

There had been a few moments, about an hour into the ordeal, as far as Arthur could guess, when he'd thought that he had an opening to be of some use. There had been a particularly loud crack of thunder, and the barrier over Merlin's body had suddenly failed him, the rain pouring in over his figure for the first time and beginning to fill in the glass-bottomed pit in which he was…in which he was doing whatever the hell it was that he seemed to be doing.

Of course, Arthur had lunged forward, the sorrowful fatigue that had been threatening to overcome him vanishing in an instant. The last thing that he needed now was for Merlin to have one of his fits while in a hole filled with water. Merlin _drowning_ was hardly going to help anything. Arthur figured that even a sorcerer so powerful as Merlin would probably benefit from trying to defy only one death at a time.

Yet, just as Arthur had reached Merlin's side and was reaching down to pull him out of the growing puddle in which he was already half submerged, Arthur was thrown backward with unbelievable force and landed hard on his backside in the mud beside Merlin's slab of rock. By the time that he had blinked the rain out of his eyes well enough to look back up to the spot from which he'd been flung, the barrier was clearly back up, the rain once more rolling off of a surface that was not there over Merlin's body.

As Arthur had begun to climb his way back up to the top of the slab, he saw what looked like _smoke_ swirling within the invisible dome, a strangely lovely sight in contrast with the raging storm around them. It was only after he'd spent a few seconds trying to figure out this fresh dose of hell that was being dealt him before he'd realized that the smoke was actually _steam._ The water within was evaporating itself with shocking speed, and as he watched, droplets of water were beading _out_ of Merlin's hair and clothing, floating upward unaided to what was apparently the top of the barrier, where they joined the rest of the water that streamed in all directions, away from the unconscious sorcerer.

There had been just enough time for Arthur to grow childishly jealous for the warmth and dryness that he had been quite literally _thrown_ away from before Merlin started twitching again.

At the time, hours earlier, Arthur had thought that it was surely as bad as it was going to get, that _this_ would be the worst that he would have to see Merlin endure. Now, as he watched Merlin starting all over again, he almost choked on the memory of his naivete.

It was a bad one, this time. One of the worst. Maybe _the_ worst.

Arthur could _hear_ it, even over the raging of the storm that surrounded them. The rain pounded against his ears, dizzying him every time that the wind switched directions and the downpour would hit him from a different side. The thunder crashed and the trees cracked. The wind howled louder than Arthur would have ever believed was possible.

Still, he could hear it. Even as he shut his eyes and plugged his ears, trying over and over again to deprive himself of his primary senses and give into what he could _feel,_ Arthur could hear it, and hearing it was as bad as seeing it. After all, seeing it once had been more than enough. He could clench his eyes as tightly as they could possibly clench, he knew, but the image would be there. Arthur shuddered. He could _hear_ it…

The worst of the whole situation—and the best of it, he supposed—was what was _happening_ every time that Merlin went into another fit.

Arthur hadn't even noticed it at first. He was too busy trying not to shiver and swallowing hard and trying to figure out why the forest around them was destroying itself and wondering if he ought to try to somehow move Merlin somewhere where a tree wouldn't fall down and crush him even more than he was _already_ crushed, trying not to feel relief that Merlin was alive when all signs indicated that he shouldn't be alive and probably wouldn't be alive for too much longer and hating himself for the _fear_ that overcame him when he'd finally found Merlin and realized that the fall _hadn't _killed him when it absolutely should have.

But then Arthur had heard, and he had noticed.

Whenever Merlin went into a particularly violent fit, accompanied with the snappings and creakings that were so comparatively quiet to the chaos around them and yet so completely horrible that Arthur could hear them above everything else, Arthur would see Merlin's broken bones twitch back into what resembled a proper frame.

Yet, even as he saw that this was probably a _good_ thing, it was so awful…it was happening so _slowly._ Merlin wouldn't twitch _once_ for each broken arm or shattered leg. It would be twitch by twitch by twitch, body flailing unnaturally as it tried to rebuild itself. Merlin's fingers would jump into a strange dance, fingers wiggling and tapping and pointing independently of each other as his knuckles rearranged themselves. His shoulder popped itself back into its socket with such horrifying force that Arthur heard it even above a simultaneous crash of thunder that shook the stones beneath his feet. Through the thin fabric of Merlin's tunic, Arthur could see individual ribs reconstructing themselves.

The worst were the joints. Elbows and knees and wrists, all flopping in all of the wrong directions as they tried to find where they belonged, to reattach themselves where they were meant to connect. The noises…the pops and grindings and clashes and _cracks…_Arthur knew that he would never forget them. When Merlin had arched back and his neck had first begun to creak, Arthur had averted his eyes completely.

And then there were the wounds.

Thankfully, Merlin's actual _wounds_ had been strangely minimal. He had bled very little, and the gashes and scrapes were not exactly Arthur's primary concerns, all things considered. Yet whenever Merlin's body was _not_ twitching and writhing on the glass below him, when it was quivering in recovery and his breath was coming in rapid gasps as color returned briefly to his thin face, the wounds received their due attention.

Arthur had noticed, back when he'd still thought Merlin dead and was staring at the body and wondering what to do, that the spilt blood had not smeared or soaked in or dried in the least. It had just…remained atop the glass, red as though recently shed, looking as fresh as if it had only just leaked out of his body when he had surely been laying there for _hours _before Arthur had found him. Now, Arthur understood _why._

As Merlin lay semi-still, the blood began snaking its way back toward him, trickling back up his skin in steady streams that seemed to be flowing backward.

Once there was no more blood on the glass around him and the wounds were apparently re-blooded, they would begin to knit themselves up slowly, leaving pink patches of skin where there had been split flesh. Even the stains of blood on Merlin's clothes where the fabric had concealed a cut of some sort were receding back into his body as he healed. Merlin was looking overall cleaner as he fought his own mortality that he ever did in the prime of his health.

Then, out of nowhere, as he reflected on the fact that blood could apparently flow out _and _into bodies and stared off into the distance, Arthur heard a horribly unnatural sound that he was sure was Merlin crying out. He stood quickly, preparing to approach as nearly as he could so that he could see what was going wrong _this_ time.

Arthur had barely gotten to his feet when a _boom_ of thunder, louder than any that he had yet heard in his hours of sitting in the heart of the storm, reverberated through the air around him. The deafening crash was more than enough to unsteady him, and it was only after he landed ten feet away from where he'd been standing that he realized that he had been thrown once more away from the stone on which Merlin had been contorting.

Beginning to grow annoyed despite himself, Arthur shoved pulled himself to his feet before the echoes of the thunder had entirely faded away, palms and trousers muddied as he tried to find his footing. He was just starting to wonder what the hell was happening _now _when there was an _explosion_ of lightning so bright that he was blinded for nearly a full minute. It had not been one of the flashes that had lit up the sky above him as he had sat in the rain, serving as his only source of light under the blackness of the clouds. This had been a jagged _bolt_ of lightning, so very similar to that which had struck _into_ Merlin's pit just after Arthur had found him, but huge, _huge,_ with a circumference nearly as large as the pit itself. And it was so very much brighter.

When Arthur finally regained his balance, he stood stock still as best he could in the opposing weather, waiting for his sight to return to him with no small amount of panic building in his chest. Slowly but surely, however, the world began to reappear in front of him. Blinking rapidly, he tried to survey the scene before him. When he processed what he was seeing, he nearly fell over again. He dropped to his knees before he realized that he had so much as begun to move.

The slab of rock upon which Merlin had fallen from the sky had turned entirely to glass, looking almost like crystal. It shone, clear and clean and _perfect_, gleaming against the dark violence of the storm. The glass that had been formed the first time that lightning had struck, melting the sand below Merlin's back into the entirely new substance, had not looked like this. It had been mottled and lumpy and flawed, the combination of milky whiteness and a dingy gray that made it look like dishwater turned to ice. From his position on his knees, more or less on eye level with the slab of what had been rock, Arthur could even see Merlin's pit through the transparency of this new glass, a whitish dip in the otherwise smooth surface.

He could not see Merlin. Suddenly anxious that perhaps there was some sort of bizarre sorcerous rule that stated that a man was only allowed to survive _one_ point blank lightning strike per day, he clambered up onto the top of the glass slab, trying to banish his baffled unease and slipping as he tried to walk across the slick smoothness, the wind _still_ doing its best to knock him aside.

And then, very suddenly, the world stopped.

The rain ceased, immediately, without so much as a drizzle or drip as it stopped. The sky cleared, the terrible blackness wasting away into nothingness, so very much like the smoke of a campfire struggling to burn on just as it had been extinguished, a reassuringly dull gray replacing it. Arthur ears began to ring, utterly befuddled by the sudden _absence_ of the pounding of the rain upon all of the rocks, the heavy dripping onto his hood, the thunder booming overhead, Merlin's bones clashing against one another. Arthur had to blink rapidly, his eyes struggling to adjust to the brightness that _lingered_ and was not, for once, coming from a flash of lightning. The wind stopped completely, and the world seemed eerily silent for a moment.

Then, all at once, the tree trunks and branches that had somehow assembled themselves into the walls around Arthur and Merlin, protecting and trapping them, collapsed to the ground, as though whatever force that had been holding them up was suddenly denied to them. It was strange, Arthur thought. They had lasted through all of the wind and all of the rain and all of the lightning, but _now_ they fell, in the absence of all opposition. He looked around him in a sort of shy wonder at the world of tranquil _stillness_ that seemed so bizarre after the previous few hours.

It was not until he heard a very quiet groan that he began to understand what must have happened, and he whipped around so quickly and so bodily and he fell back off of the glass surface that had been beneath his feet and back onto the ground. Again.

Normally, the fact that he was falling every two minutes would have been more than enough to anger and provoke him into something of what Guinevere tended to refer to as a "tantrum." But this was no normal day.

Palms stinging, he shoved himself up once more and looked forward at the glass that had once been a rock upon which he had spent the majority of his day, wretched and miserable and afraid. Now, too anxious to be careful, he moved upward by sheer force of will and hope. He would not fall again. He would not falter. Not until he was sure…

Before Arthur could reach his destination, however, he saw a hand emerge and slap the glass with a _smack_ that rung in the silence, the palm reaching up from the shallow pit.

And then there was a voice.

"Ouch," it said, sounding irritated.

Then Merlin sat up, rubbing the back of his head and blinking furiously. He looked unkempt, disheveled, and completely unaware of his surroundings. He looked like _Merlin,_ and Arthur would have smiled were he not still so tense. He stopped and stood silently, rooted to his spot as he watched Merlin push himself out of his pit, slipping slightly as he wobbled his way up to the smooth surface. When Merlin stood up to his full height, wearing only one boot, he had to extend his arms out to the side for one precarious moment as he fought for balance.

"Hi, Arthur," said Merlin, almost absently, as though he had just stepped away for a moment to gather some firewood and was letting Arthur know that he had returned.

Not bothering to look at him, Merlin began bending and unbending his limbs, almost experimentally, and Arthur was reminded of how _he_ always moved whenever he was trying to get the feel of a new suit of armor. The thought unsettled him.

And he had thought that he had hit his limit of unsettling thoughts for the day.

Merlin didn't seem to notice the look on Arthur's face and just continued testing out his extremities.

"I don't know why the _hell_ you let me go to sleep on top of a giant boulder made of _glass,_ Arthur, because I am _sore._ So, you know, thanks for that," Merlin complained, and Arthur felt his eyes nearly bug out of his head. This was the first thing that Merlin had to say after falling off of a dragon and then looking like a corpse and then having his body repair itself in what was probably the most horrifyingly grotesque manner conceivable? And what was he going on about about Arthur letting him sleep?

"Honestly," Merlin continued. "_I_ wouldn't have let _you_ do that. You are a terrible traveling companion! Would it kill you to think of someone else every once in a while and, you know, act your age? You're nearly thirty years old, Arthur, and I _still_ have to throw things at you to wake you up in the morning!"

"Merlin," began Arthur, then stopped. What on earth was he supposed to say? Where was he supposed to _start?_ Arthur could barely stand up straight. Participating in a coherent dialogue felt somewhat unlikely at the moment.

"What?" Merlin sounded annoyed. Oblivious. As though he was genuinely confused by Arthur's behavior and not playing an extremely inappropriately timed and obscenely heartless practical joke. He began stretching out his muscles and winced as he rubbed his shoulder. "Ow."

"Merlin," Arthur said again. He had heard Merlin complain more vehemently of pain when Arthur had smacked him in the face with a _pillow._ This wasn't how things were supposed to work. "Merlin..."

"_What?"_ Merlin asked, his exasperation audible. He stopped stretching and turned to look at Arthur, no doubt preparing to complain some more. He seemed to comprehend something in Arthur's face, however, for his expression of exaggerated annoyance was quickly replaced by one of concern. "Are you alright, Arthur? You look terrible."

Merlin took a step closer to Arthur, looking genuinely worried about him.

So Arthur began to laugh. Even he could hear the hysterical edge to his voice, but he didn't care. He laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed until he had laughed himself breathless, at which point his vision seemed to swim in front of his eyes and he felt the sudden need to grab onto something. Unable to aim for or even see much of anything, he just made a halfhearted groping gesture at the air in front of him.

There was nothing, at first, and Arthur was in rather great danger of falling down _again, _and he was already distantly wondering which way he'd end up toppling when suddenly, Merlin was there, steadying Arthur and allowing the reaching hand to grip onto his shoulder, so recently dislocated, balancing him.

For some reason, looking at the shoulder that had been unnaturally loose less than an hour ago served to sober Arthur at once, and he began to take deep breaths that only _slightly_ sounded like he was hyperventilating. Still unable to speak properly, Arthur stood up tall and released his grip on Merlin, trying to show without words that he was okay and that he could manage on his own and that he did not need Merlin to hold him up.

Then Merlin took a step back, his expression wary and focused on Arthur's face. Arthur wanted to laugh again. This was so ridiculous!

But he didn't laugh. Instead, he reached forward for the sorcerer once more and, ignoring the bemused and slightly suspicious look on Merlin's face, pulled him forward into an embrace, his hand rising up to cover the back of Merlin's head in a gesture of instinctive protection. With the other hand, he clutched a fistful of Merlin's coat and did not let go, almost feeling that, if he kept a tight enough hold on his friend, neither of them would have to go through again what Merlin had gone through that day. The beads of water from his sleeves were dripping onto Merlin's annoyingly _dry_ clothing, and Arthur knew damn well that he was probably soaking Merlin to the bone.

But what the hell, Arthur thought, still refusing to relinquish his grip on Merlin. Merlin had opened the heavens and brought the storm to end all storms down upon Arthur's head. If Merlin got a little bit _damp,_ Arthur wasn't sure how far his sympathies would reach.

Shaking his head, Arthur hoped that Merlin wouldn't put that theory to the test. He was fairly certain that he would have let Merlin get away with just about anything just then.

After another few moments, Merlin gently disengaged himself from Arthur's embrace, looking more concerned than ever, and Arthur suddenly remembered that _he_ had only really been known to go for any hugs after a particularly worrisome crisis of some sort.

Merlin's words, however, were carefully careless. "What's happened, Arthur? You're all…wet."

Merlin's voice was soft and urgent, his question serious.

But Arthur was not in the mood for seriousness. Nothing was making a whole lot of sense that day anyway. Why should he try to try to figure any of it out?

"You're terribly clever, Merlin," answered Arthur, feeling lightheaded with the normalcy of it all. "Take a look around you. _Everything _is wet."

Merlin glanced around, looking very tired and very alert at the same time, like the time that he'd meant to drink a sleeping potion to relieve his nightmares but had accidentally ingested a stimulant instead. This, however, was far less amusing a situation. "Huh. I guess it is. Did it rain? _I'm_ dry."

Arthur laughed again, and he heard a tinge of hysteria returning to his voice.

Merlin scowled, apparently taking the laugh as an insult. "Make fun of me later, Arthur, I'm starving. Have you got the food? I can't seem to remember where I packed it this morning. You look like you could use something yourself, actually. More of the Gwaine variety, really, but food will have to do. A fire, too, I think. If you don't dry off, Arthur, you're going to get sick, and if you think that I came all this way to look after you when you go get and get yourself the bloody _sniffles,_ you are very sorely mistaken, my friend. By the way, why _is_ there a giant glass boulder in the middle of the forest? Is it magical? That would explain why I can't remember going to sleep on it, and things _have_ been feeling magical lately. Did it call to me? Don't look at me like I'm crazy, Arthur, that sort of thing _does_ happen to me, you know. Or maybe you don't. Well, now you know. That sort of thing happens to me! Surprisingly often, actually. I don't seem any worse for it this time, though, so that's nice. Anyway. Food?"

Arthur stared at him. There were so many things for them to say. There was so much that he needed to tell Merlin, that he needed to _ask_ Merlin, that they had to plan and do and build. There were so many things of such importance that they eclipsed anything so trivial as food or sleep or comforts. So what if Merlin had apparently come back from the dead? They had a mission, after all. What did it matter if Arthur wanted to laugh and cry and shout at the top of his lungs and sleep and run and punch someone and see if he could get away with hugging Merlin again and _live_ and feel and experience? There were things to do.

So Arthur opened his mouth and said, "Yeah, I could eat."

Yes, there were lots of things that they had to do. But they would still have to do them tomorrow. Now? Merlin was going to rest, whether he liked it or not.

Unaware of Arthur's intentions, Merlin rolled his eyes. "I suppose I'll be the one cooking again."

Arthur shook his head firmly and put both hands on top of Merlin's shoulders, pressing down with all of his strength.

As it turned out, Arthur had been more weakened by the events of the day than he'd thought, for Merlin just stood there with an expectant and slightly confused look on his face. That, or Merlin had magically fortified himself to be exponentially stronger that he had been as he'd healed himself. Whatever the method, Merlin was still standing and apparently not comprehending how _considerate_ Arthur was attempting to be.

But Arthur was a stubborn man, and when he decided that he was going to be _kind_ and _considerate, _he was damn well going to be pretty damn kind and considerate.

So he kicked Merlin in the back of the knees so that his legs buckled and he was forced to sit down on the glass stone that gleamed flawlessly in the middle of all of the carnage around them.

And Arthur said, "_You_ will be sitting still and shutting up."

Merlin raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms across his chest, although he did not try to stand. "And _you_ will be the one cooking?"

Arthur crossed his own arms across his chest. "Yep."

Merlin laughed. "Wow, Arthur, if you want to _kill_ me, there are plenty of easier ways to get the job done."

The comment was lighthearted, tossed with a grin and an eyeroll in Arthur's direction. A day ago, Arthur probably would have laughed, remembering all of the times that he _had_ in fact threatened to murder Merlin, and often in creatively gruesome manners. And Merlin would have laughed as well, because for all of the times that Arthur had been on his deathbed and for all of the threats that had been on _Merlin's_ head, Merlin had never had many scares.

Yes, yesterday, Arthur might have laughed.

_That_ day, however, Arthur just turned away and began to rummage in Merlin's pack, the pack that he had found in the forest before finding Merlin and that he had kept safe, all throughout the storm, just for the sake of protecting _something._ Arthur pretended to be more absorbed in what he was doing than he truly was. He did not want Merlin to see his face, and did not even turn in his direction as he withdrew the boot that he'd hastily shoved inside when the rains had started and threw it in Merlin's general direction.

Still sitting and absorbing Arthur's silence, Merlin apparently figured out that most of their belongings were not in their cluttered clearing and he laid back on the glass and stared up at the soft purple of an evening beginning to settle in. Thus situated and not bothering to retrieve his boot from where Arthur had hurled it at him, he began to call for Aithusa in the deep and rough voice of a Dragonlord that had not yet failed to unsettle Arthur.

Satisfied that Merlin was still reclining and probably not about to fall off of anything and crack his skull open or anything, Arthur shoved through Merlin's belongings inside of his pack, past spare neckerchiefs and a few random scrolls of parchment and a few bottles that were either filled with mead that Merlin had not chosen to share with Arthur or something infinitely more practical like potions to aid with poisonings or gaping wounds or infections or sniffles or other such serious health threats. Finally, he found what he was looking for. Merlin's flint.

Flint in hand, Arthur strolled over to a pile of wood that had rather conveniently fallen into a shape well-suited for a cooking fire. Unfortunately, the wood was even more soaked than Arthur, and Arthur generally had a hard enough time with the flint on the best of days. He sighed loudly and knelt down to begin what he was sure was to be a long series of fruitless attempts to start the fire.

Merlin apparently heard the sigh, for out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Merlin prop himself casually up on his elbows from where he lay on the glass slab, and mutter a single word before laying back down, fingers laced behind his head.

The wet wood caught fire.

So Arthur sat down, cross-legged in front of the merrily crackling flame, lowered his head, covered his mouth, and began to weep.

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**Thank you for reading. Reviews are always very appreciated! **


	8. On The Home Front

From the very first few months of their marriage, it had become more and more apparent to Guinevere that Merlin had not been exaggerating when he'd warned of Arthur's occasional preoccupation with complaining about being king.

Guinevere had laughed at the serious expression on Merlin's face. He had taken time out of all of the preparations for the wedding that Arthur was demanding that he handle singlehandedly, Merlin said, to give her a talk about what would happen after the marriage.

Merlin had waited with surprising patience until she had finished laughing at _that_ statement. When she'd calmed down enough to speak, she told him that Elyan had already covered the "big brother" talk for both Arthur and herself, if that was what Merlin was getting at. If Merlin was in fact implying that he needed to educate her on something far more inappropriate that tended to accompany marriage, she told him, as bluntly as she dared, that about half a dozen court dowagers had cornered her to give lessons in _that_ particular subject area and that she certainly didn't want to hear anything of the sort from the mouth of the person who spent a good portion of his waking hours in the company of the man who was to be her husband. Merlin was one of her best friends, but who was to say that he hadn't come on orders from Arthur to put certain ideas into her head?

She had been slightly stressed at the time.

Merlin took the accusation with far more grace than she would have and far less amusement that she was sure that he would have liked to show.

Besides, he told her, he hadn't come to tell her that he would kill Arthur if she was mistreated or to give her tips on how to best perform what the dowagers liked to call her "wifely duty." He had come to warn her about what life with Arthur was like.

Merlin had had to exercise some more patience until Guinevere stopped laughing at _that_ one. On one hand, she was rather touched that he'd thought to try to help her on this front. On the other and much more entertaining hand, she knew perfectly well that he _was_ by far the most qualified person in the kingdom to be able to explain what life with Arthur would be like. Ever since the engagement, references to Merlin as "Arthur's first wife" hadn't been flying around for nothing.

To his credit, Merlin had laughed at the accusations, probably because he knew as well as she did that Arthur would not have found it humorous in the slightest. After all, _Merlin's_ codependence with _Arthur_ was not the situation that was unusual. It was the king's codependence with his manservant that was the most…unexpected.

And funny. Elyan had actually concluded her half of his big brother talk by informing her that she was lucky that she and Merlin were friends, because Merlin could have made life very difficult for her. Guinevere had laughed at that as well. It was like no one thought that she understood that Merlin and Arthur were basically a package deal. Those poor boys, she'd said, fondly.

But when Merlin had come to her, the day before the _actual_ wedding, to talk to her about the details of life with Arthur, he had been serious.

The list was mostly composed of what events and items and conversations were most likely to annoy him when he was in one of his moods. Merlin had conceded that Arthur was probably not going to resort to throwing things at her as he tended to do at Merlin, but his sulky silences, said Merlin, could be almost as bad. He told her about Arthur's King Voice, and how when he began to speak loftily and overly regally and stand with his chin a bit too high in the air, it was generally a sign that he was getting crabby. He told her, in no uncertain terms, that Arthur was a slob and that, if Arthur had had any pity for Merlin, he would have enlisted an army of servants to deal with just his chambers.

Merlin maintained that he wasn't trying to provoke her into timidity or make her feel that she had to defer to Arthur whenever he got into one of his moods or began acting like a child or starting to try to pull the "king" card over everyone—he was just trying to give her enough ammunition to take to the figurative battlefield. They were in love and life together seemed like it would be the easiest thing in the world, he acknowledged, but he was very insistent on the fact that Arthur's annoying habits were not going to disappear the instant that the ring went on his finger.

Guinevere had smiled, thanking him, secretly suspecting that Arthur _had_ sent Merlin on this little trip, and _that_ was why Merlin seemed so urgent and determined to be thorough. After all, just because Merlin knew a lot about life with Arthur, what did Merlin know about marriage?

As it turned out, knowledge of life with Arthur happened to trump the need for knowledge about marriage.

But Guinevere hadn't known that at the time. When Merlin had pulled out his list, she saw that there were two points of interest that seemed to have a great deal written about them. She also saw that the whole thing looked like it was written in Arthur's hand. When that had driven her to out and out accuse Merlin of coming at Arthur's bidding, he'd looked surprised. No, he said, he had just used his Arthur Writing. He had been writing notes for and dictating correspondences for the king for so long that it had apparently become a useful skill to have handwriting as similar to his as was possible. With a hint of pride, Merlin mentioned that he had all but mastered Arthur's signature—he just hadn't gotten the unnecessary loopings quite perfected. Guinevere had been rather shocked at the revelation, but Merlin just shrugged and said that Arthur had told him that, as long as Merlin stayed away from the royal seal, he trusted Merlin to sign his less important documents and requisitions.

Guinevere had marveled at the level of trust and wondered if it ought to be touching or alarming that Merlin was so involved with matters of state.

But that hadn't mattered at the time. Guinevere had asked, hands on hips, why Merlin would have written his list of Arthur's annoying habits in _Arthur's_ handwriting. Merlin had laughed and said that Arthur was far more likely to read something written in _Merlin's_ handwriting than in writing copied after his own. Merlin's notes had the potential to be interesting, Arthur claimed; anything that he'd gotten Merlin to copy for him was, by its very nature, boring.

Guinevere had shivered at that, feeling that there was something _off_ about the cavalier way in which Merlin was speaking of manipulating Arthur's judgment within his own chambers. Sure, it was a matter frivolity, but what if…

Merlin had interrupted that thought by handing her the list, and she _did_ note the differences between this Arthur's writing. It was vaguely comforting, although she was fairly certain that a few of Arthur's love letters had been in _this_ hand. They _had_ seemed strangely flowery for proud King Arthur.

Looking at the list, she was fairly amused at the two topics upon which Merlin had been most generous with the ink. First and foremost on the list was the fact that Arthur was _not_ a morning person.

She and Arthur were planning on continuing in the tradition of nobility of each having their own separate sets of rooms for when they were not occupying together their _shared_ chamber, which Arthur had commissioned a fair few architects to manage to serve as a bridge between his and hers, adjoining them.

Merlin spoke as delicately as he could of the occasions when they would be waking in the same bed, blushing and averting his eyes so determinedly that Guinevere was too entertained to be embarrassed. But she was too excited and nervous and stressed and in love to really comprehend the truth in what Merlin was saying. She'd assumed that Arthur was not a morning person in the same way that Morgana had not been a morning person, on the occasions when not plagued by nightmares—slow to awaken, but usually persuaded from bed by a kind word or a particularly tantalizingly aromatic breakfast.

As it turned out, Arthur required more _violent_ means to get out of bed on such mornings.

Of course, she hadn't discovered this unfortunate fact until several months into their marriage. Guinevere had assumed that the "newlywed syndrome" to which a few of the dowagers had referred was either a myth designed to frighten the commoner queen or a concept that would surely not apply to Arthur or Guinevere. Their love was too pure to remain anything but idyllic, was it not?

_That_ belief was shattered on one particular morning in their shared chambers. From the very beginning, servants had been banned from the room when it was occupied, husband and wife relying on each other to face the day together as one. Just because Arthur usually required a servant to arise each morning did not mean that he would face the same problems with his queen.

As it turned out, Arthur could be sweet and chivalrous and romantic to such extremes at night that she always believed, without a single doubt, that she was the luckiest woman in the world with the most selflessly devoted husband in the five kingdoms. On days when it was required for him to arise at dawn? On those days, as it happened, Arthur was not quite so dashing.

Guinevere's cheeks still burned at the memory of that first morning when she'd had to slip over into Arthur's chambers, in her nightclothes with disheveled hair and bare feet, where Merlin had laid out Arthur's clothes and brought a cold breakfast that would not spoil in waiting and who was currently sleeping soundly as he leant back in Arthur's chair, feet up on the desk. Were she not so embarrassed, she would have smiled as she tried to gently nudge him awake.

Fortunately, on Merlin, it worked, and she had never forgotten his first words.

"All _right,_ Arthur! It's not my fault that I have to get up at crack of dawn _when it is still dark_ to get all of your rubbish together when you're not even _here._ Yes, I'm tired! So banish me! And if you think that I'm reheating your damn bathwater now that you've decided to flounce your way over, you have another thing thing comi—"

Then Merlin had opened his eyes and noticed that he was ranting at the wrong monarch. "Oh. Hi, Gwen. Sorry about that."

Guinevere waved away his apology and gestured for him to be quiet. "I need your help," she said in a hushed tone.

"With what?" Merlin whispered back. "And why are we whispering?"

"I can't get Arthur to wake up!"

Merlin leaned Arthur's chair forward, and the legs hit the floor with a _thump._ "Is he sick?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so. He was fine last night, and he doesn't have a fever. I just…can't get him truly awake."

Merlin stood up and leaned toward her, clearly fighting a smile. "Then why are we whispering? Don't we want to wake him up?"

"Oh," she said. "I really didn't think this through, did I? Anyway, how do you get him up? He's usually more or less on time when he sleeps in his own chambers."

Merlin picked up one of Arthur's breakfast rolls. Beginning to chew on it, he asked, "What have you tried?"

Guinevere began to wring her hands, wishing that this conversation was not happening. "Well, I've said his name several times and told him to wake up in a loud voice and prodded him."

Merlin snorted. "That's all?"

"Well, I prodded him _vigorously_!" she had answered, somewhat defensively. "What else could I have done?"

Merlin sighed. "Want me to get him up?"

"No! I'd be so embarrassed that I had to ask for tips."

"What do you want, then?"

"Just…a tip."

Merlin had smiled. "A gentle one?"

"Yes," she'd answered, wondering what exactly he meant by that.

Merlin finished the roll and began to pick at the grapes that he'd brought for Arthur's breakfast. "Go back into your room and take the covers off. _Vigorously,_ if you will. Oh, and take his pillow."

She didn't understand. "What, do I smother him with it?"

Merlin stared at her. "No, Gwen, do not _smother_ Arthur. Just take it. Take all of them, actually. Otherwise he'll just roll over and steal yours."

Gwen nodded, took a deep breath, and padded out of the room. When she came back into Arthur's chambers, Merlin was helping himself to the cheese on Arthur's plate. "It didn't work!"

Merlin had rolled his eyes, mouth full, and walked over to the doorway and peeked in at the king. "You didn't take his covers off!" he said indignantly. "You just…untucked him!"

Guinevere just shrugged, helpless and in love and fighting the bizarre urge to laugh. She and Merlin hadn't had much time to spend together lately. "Merlin, he needs to be up _now!_ He told me last night that he has a full day today."

Merlin nodded. "He has a council session and a knighting ceremony and a training session and a wardrobe fitting and then an official dinner. So do you, by the way."

She just stared at him. "I don't know how I feel about you knowing all of that."

He grinned. "Don't worry, it's not a matter of my having his confidence too much. I don't think that _he_ knows everything that he has to do today. Starting with a damn _bath!"_ Merlin yelled the last sentence through the doorway at Arthur, who just rolled over and hid under the blankets.

Merlin and Guinevere sighed simultaneously. "Want me to do it?"

Deciding that Arthur would probably be more ashamed of the situation than she was, she just nodded. She ushered Merlin in and followed, hovering by the door, eyes wide and observing. If she saw how Merlin did it, then _she_ would be able to do it in the future, and Merlin would be able to nap a bit longer without eating Arthur's breakfast.

Speaking of which…

"Merlin. Merlin!"

He turned to look at her.

"Why were you eating Arthur's breakfast? Did you not have time to eat yourself?"

Merlin had shrugged. "I ate. Arthur just ought to learn that if he wants his breakfast, he had better start getting up in time to eat it."

Guinevere thought for a moment, then nodded. That was fair. Then, she gestured for Merlin to take action, slightly excited. What was Merlin's secret method? Did he have some quick and immediate rousing trick that would coax Arthur awake with no problem? Embarrassment aside, she had the feeling that this would be helpful. Merlin had six years of experience waking Arthur; surely he had some subtle system, finely honed and smooth.

Then Merlin strode forward, banging into the furniture noisily and deliberately, and opened all of the windows. Even from the opposite side of the room, Guinevere found herself shivering. Arthur just rolled over in bed, so Merlin picked up one of the pillows that Guinevere had dropped on the floor after snagging them from the bed. He threw it at Arthur. Arthur, clearly at least _somewhat_ conscious, groped for it and threw it back. Not aiming, it hit the windowpane and nearly fell down to the courtyard below.

"Arthur, get _up,"_ said Merlin, his voice a strange combination of cheeriness and irritation.

"Merlin. What are you doing here." Arthur apparently did not have the energy to turn statements into questions.

"What do you think I'm doing here?"

"Where's Guinevere."

"She left you because you're a lazy oaf of a king."

"Liar."

"I would if I were her."

_That_ was a strange retort, thought Guinevere, once more fighting the strange urge to laugh.

Arthur just buried his face in the sheets, apparently not finding Merlin's remarks strange at all. His voice was muffled when he spoke.

"Go ahead. Get me a manservant who will let me sleep."

"Get _up,_ Arthur."

Arthur rolled over _again,_ tangling himself in the bedclothes so that he was in a sort of cocoon of blankets. Guinevere groaned. How were they going to get him up _now?_

Merlin just rolled his eyes and strode toward the bed. He took hold of the top blanket and _yanked._

Arthur promptly fell out of bed.

Guinevere almost fell over.

Arthur had landed near one of the other pillows that Guinevere had dropped to the floor and picked it up, still entangled in his blankets, and heaved it at Merlin. Merlin, apparently anticipating this move, had ducked preemptively, and the pillow hit the wall behind him. When Arthur finally freed himself of the blankets and stood up, scowling and bleary and frowzy, hair sticking up and eyes blinking rapidly, he noticed Merlin staring at him, hands on hips with annoyance, and Guinevere, leaning against the wall of their shared chambers, shaking with and covering her mouth to try to conceal her giggles.

Apparently, Arthur had been awake enough to blush darker than she'd ever seen him blush.

And thus did Merlin, manservant and a man of one of the lowest positions in the entire court, shame the king out of bed.

On similar occasions in the future, Guinevere never _could_ manage to bring herself to bodily drag Arthur out of their marriage bed. She wasn't even sure if she _could_ manage to do it on her own. But she could always wake him up enough to make him understand a single sentence.

"If you don't get up right this instant, I am going to bring _Merlin_ in here."

It tended to work.

Arthur never _did_ become a morning person, but she grew to love him all the more for it.

Suddenly, Guinevere shivered. She was sitting in front of her looking glass, her chambers lit only by the few flickering candles that she had not yet extinguished. Almost automatically, she glanced back at the desk where the magical purple candle still burned. She had not extinguished it from the moment that she'd sent the letter to Arthur and Merlin.

Just it had been doing all that day, she felt a sense of dreadful foreboding wash over her. They should have gotten the note by now. It had been _days._ They should have gotten it. Merlin had assured her, so long ago when he'd first given it to her, that it would take a hell of a lot of very dark magic to interfere with any letter delivering. They _should_ have gotten the note by now. Even if they had not been thrilled with the angry contents, they would have answered. They would have known that, behind the accusations and remonstrances and harsh words, that she was dreadfully worried about them. She _and_ Gwaine. No, no matter how annoyed they might have been by the contents, Arthur and Merlin would have answered, just to let she and Gwaine know that they were still alive.

They should have gotten the note by now.

And they _would_ have answered.

Guinevere shivered again. She had felt awful all day. The horrible pitting sensation in her stomach that had struck at her the previous evening and lingered all through the night was still there. She'd felt so terrible that she'd nearly cancelled the council session—those being painful enough on their own, even with Gwaine unconventionally and rather scandalously at her side in silent support—before she'd realized that she wasn't _ill._ She just felt…off. She was sure that somewhere, somehow, in some way, something was dreadfully wrong.

Guinevere shook her head, trying to make herself smile that what she was feeling was just paranoia brought on by loneliness. After all, how could she be feeling anything that they were feeling, wherever they were? _She_ had no magic.

Of course, Merlin _had_ mentioned to her once that proximity and great love could connect a man and woman in ways that no magic could, but she'd figured that he was just being flowery again.

And there _had_ been that instance when a amusingly drunken Merlin had told her about how prolonged proximity with such a powerful sorcerer as him led to connections that could not really be explained. He'd asked her if she hadn't felt it during his exile. She hadn't answered—she didn't like the implications and she'd told herself that Merlin came up with all sorts of crazy stories when he was drunk. He hadn't remembered it the next day either, although Guinevere had been unwilling to tell him exactly what he'd told her.

But surely she was being ridiculous. There was no way that she could know if something had been going wrong for them, if one or both of them were hurt or dead or dying. She had no magic. She had love and fear and hope and dread.

Besides, would either one _really_ let the other die? She had the disturbing and comforting feeling that either _both_ would be coming back, or _neither_ of them would. But they were a good team, devoted to each other and to her. They were dedicated and dutiful and stubborn enough that they would be continuing on and working toward completion of their mission without distraction. Wherever they were, Guinevere was sure, they were focusing with the utmost intensity on the task at hand. Deep down, she knew that they were too mature and too wise to waste time needlessly. It wasn't as though they would be running headfirst into such a precarious situation without a _plan. _No, whatever they were doing, they were making practical use of their time, focusing. They were behaving like adults.

Then, unwillingly, her mind returned to that morning when Merlin had eaten Arthur's breakfast just to annoy him and when Arthur had not satisfied himself enough to assent to dressing until he had _successfully_ pelted Merlin with one of the pillows that he'd kept dodging, and her smile wavered. Behaving like adults, she thought, her heart sinking just a tiny bit more.

Weren't they?

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**Just had to check back in with Camelot! The next chapter will be back to the boys, and is about half written, so hopefully it will be up very soon. **

**Thank you for reading!**

**Reviews would be great. **


	9. One Foot Before

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine. **

"Hey, Merlin?"

"Yes, Arthur?"

"If we got a pet wyvern, do you think he'd be okay with being our bread toaster?"

Merlin leaned back, looking thoughtful. His eyes glittered in the firelight, the flickering of the flames giving them a gold tint every time that he looked into them.

Arthur's heart leapt uncomfortably every time.

By _that_ point in the evening, however, he wasn't _so_ alarmed by it that he assumed that Merlin was going to fall backward off of the log that served as his seat, collapse into a fit, and turn himself inside out and outside in again. It was a good thing that he was settling into it, too, he figured. The first time that Arthur had lunged forward to try to steady him, Merlin actually _had_ fallen off of the log in sheer surprise

It would have been funny, actually, if it were any other situation.

"A pet wyvern?" asked Merlin, slowly.

Arthur leaned forward on his own log on the opposite side of the fire, where he was sharpening a knife on a rock just to have something to do with his hands. "You can summon those, right? They're like mini-dragons, aren't they?"

Merlin nodded and sat forward again, elbows on his knees in a gesture that Arthur assumed was driven by either legitimate thought or exhaustion. He hoped it was the latter and that Merlin would _finally_ consent to going to sleep.

"I think so," said Merlin. "They've obeyed me in the past, although not without a little bit of attitude."

"So it could work?"

"You've really come around to the whole dragon thing."

Arthur raised his eyebrows pointedly. "Aithusa and I bonded over _hating_ you for scaring the hell out of us."

Arthur couldn't help but wonder if he was making a bit too light of the situation. He would not soon forget the scene in which Aithusa had found them, summoned by the smoke and a shouting Merlin, who seemed genuinely perplexed by how it wavered. Aithusa had flown down, hovering over their clearing, filling the sky above them with his bulk and making it seem all the more claustrophobic. The dangerous glint in Aithusa's eyes did nothing to add any calm to the encounter.

Arthur was certainly not an expert on deciphering the emotions of dragons, but even _he_ could detect the fear and apprehension that seemed to roll of off the dragon in waves.

When Aithusa caught sight of Merlin, he _fell_ more than landed out of the sky, making a colossal thump as he hit the tree-strewn floor of their clearing.

Then had commenced one of the strangest things that Arthur had ever seen. Aithusa had walked toward Merlin, almost staggering, and done something that would have terrified _Arthur_ into either fleeing or drawing his sword. By the way that _Merlin_ reacted, however, he had the feeling that it was something else entirely.

It was only when he saw Merlin walk toward the dragon, looking mildly puzzled, and wrapped his arms around Aithusa's snout that he realized what Aithusa was doing.

He was _nuzzling_ Merlin.

Yes, that was one of the strangest things that Arthur had ever seen. After all, from what he recalled of the Great Dragon, he couldn't imagine _that_ beast trying to snuggle up to _anything._ Except maybe a dead Uther. Then, Arthur remembered what Merlin had told him of the white dragon.

That the reason that Aithusa was so much smaller was because he was so much _younger._

That he did not have the years of suffering and sadness at the slaughter of the rest of his kin and imprisonment that had so embittered "Kilgarrah," as Merlin called him.

That _Merlin_ had hatched him and that dragons tended to be particularly fond of Dragonlords and _especially_ particularly fond of the Dragonlords who hatched them. Arthur had accused Merlin of being Aithusa's mother, but Merlin hadn't been offended. He had just smiled and looked at Aithusa with pride in his eyes and said "something like that."

That Aithusa had panicked so much when Merlin had fallen…

Aithusa _loved_ Merlin, and for the first time, as he watched the dragon and Merlin close their eyes at the same time, chests moving in sync as they breathed, he wondered if he was really the only one who thought of Merlin as a sort of parent to the best.

Then, one of the strangest and bizarrely _sweetest_ things that Arthur had ever seen turned into one of the most shocking.

For, when Merlin had leaned back from the odd little dragon/man embrace and smiled at Aithusa, Aithsua had reared back, spouting fire from his mouth up at the sky, and _roared._

Arthur, continuing his trend for the day, promptly fell over. He was scooting himself backward before he noticed that Merlin hadn't moved, only placed his hands on his hips and cocked his head, face up to the sky.

"Aithusa, _stop_ it!"

Arthur noticed that Merlin was not using his Dragonlord voice. This was a request, not an order.

Aithusa just took off from the ground. He did not take to the sky; he only flapped his mighty wings down at them, the rushes of wind disorienting Arthur into feeling as though the storm was returning and extinguishing the fire that Arthur had not been able to light.

The wind did nothing more to Merlin than blow his clothes about and tangle his hair into a _more_ unsightly nest of darkness.

Still, Merlin was calm.

If anything, his voice was _annoyed. _"Aithusa, will you come down here, please?"

Merlin just kept glaring at the dragon, hands on his hips, until Aithusa relented and landed once more. Arthur took the opportunity to stand up and spare a thought in curiosity at how many more times he was likely to fall over before the day ended.

Then, face to face, Aithusa's jaw with the massive and very sharp teeth only about a foot away from Merlin's head, smoke issuing from the dragon's mouth every time that he exhaled, they began to _argue. _

Unfortunately, for Arthur, it began in the strange dragon tongue that Arthur had only heard a few times. Merlin usually tried to address Aithusa in the common language, for what Arthur suspected was his benefit, and Aithusa tended to follow Merlin's example in most things.

That evening, however?

That evening, Aithusa began roaring at Merlin in _his_ language, and it seemed that _Merlin_ was choosing to follow _Aithusa's_ example.

Curious as he was, that was just fine with Arthur. He wouldn't have wanted to irritate Aithusa at that particular moment any more than he already was.

Besides, Arthur didn't need a translation to get the gist of the conversation. From Aithusa's unrepentant roaring and Merlin's bemused apologetic expression, Arthur had the impression that Merlin was doing what he could to appease the dragon and that the dragon was learning the disturbing fact that Arthur still had a fair amount of trouble believing—that Merlin did not remember anything that had happened since he had climbed onto the dragon that morning.

Had it really only been that morning?

After a few minutes, Arthur found that he was beginning to understand them once more. Merlin had reverted to the common tongue, and it appeared that Aithusa had followed suit without realizing it.

Arthur had considered this to be a good sign.

He also discovered that he had been correct about their argument. Aithusa was bellowing at Merlin for frightening him and not understanding, and Merlin was apologizing without understanding what he was really apologizing for and growing more and more frustrated with the fact.

Merlin wasn't lying.

He didn't remember.

How the _hell_ was that even possible? He insisted to Arthur that he couldn't even recall feeling ill. When Arthur had tried to describe Merlin's paleness and nausea and disorientation, trying to express how legitimately alarming it had all been _before_ he'd even fallen, Merlin had just showed that smile that he always gave when he was trying to reassure Arthur about whatever he was worrying about without really believing that there was any validity in the fears.

Merlin thought that Arthur was overreacting to the situation. Arthur couldn't decide whether that was funny or alarmingly absurd.

Eventually, Aithusa calmed down enough to alleviate Arthur's fears for their lives, finally flying off in search of food and a cooler head. Before he left the clearing however, Aithusa turned to Arthur, and Arthur recognized the expression in his eyes. Arthur knew very little about dragons beyond the facts that they were hard to kill and that he did not like riding on their backs, but he recognized the expression. There was fear and uncertainty and confusion and frustration and love and concern and _irritation_ at the source of all of the trouble.

The source being Merlin.

So, for perhaps the first time, Arthur and Aithusa were on the same page.

It was surprising how often Arthur was able to bond with others over irrational irritation with Merlin.

Merlin, who looked annoyingly at ease and comfortable as he sat in front of their fire, pondering Arthur's claim of his and Aithusa's agreement over Merlin's unlikelihood.

"Would you get over that already? I swear, you and Aithusa are the most dramatic creatures this side of the citadel. I didn't do any of it on _purpose."_

Arthur rolled eyes, trying to convey irritation whilst maintaining a gaze on his friend. Just in case…

"It would help if you would just _tell_ about what happened."

Merlin rolled his own eyes. "I told you, I don't remember. And excuse me for not entirely accepting _your_ account of what happened. All things considered."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"As I recall, _for example,_ you have managed to convince yourself that I can talk to horses with my mind."

"You can!"

He could. Arthur just _knew_ it, and one of these days, he was going to catch Merlin at it. Then they would see who was laughing!

"I cannot! See what I mean? And I'm honestly not trying to be difficult. I just don't really understand what you're trying to say."

Arthur sighed. "I told you. I've told you and told you and told you."

"It just seems kind of implausible, Arthur," said Merlin, smiling with what Arthur could only interpret as _condescension_ on his face.

Arthur scowled. "You know, if _I _were Aithusa, I would burn you to a crisp before you have the chance to go all Dragonlord on me and tell me not to."

"Good thing you're not a dragon."

"Because I'd kill you?"

"Because you'd be afraid of yourself."

"I am not afraid of dragons! Stop laughing, I am _not_ afr...anyway_,_ Merlin, back to the subject at hand."

Merlin raised his eyebrows, looking weary, laughter stopping immediately.

This was good. If Merlin had forgotten what they were talking about, maybe he was _really_ getting tired and would drop off soon. Arthur didn't care how ridiculously powerful a sorcerer he claimed to be. As far as Arthur was concerned, any body that goes through what Merlin's had gone through was entitled to some serious rest.

Whether that particular body liked it or not.

"What were we talking about?"

"Pet wyvern?" Arthur reminded him.

"Oh, right. I could try—"

Then, a very exciting thought hit Arthur, and he interrupted.

"Can I name it?"

Merlin snorted. "You? No. You'd probably name it 'Arthur' or 'Scaly' or 'Pen' or something else that you would think is terribly clever."

Arthur paused. "Why would I name it '_Pen'_ of all things—"

Merlin gave a great heave of a sigh, as though Arthur's was the most unreasonable question ever asked. "So that you could call him 'Pen Dragon,' Arthur!"

Arthur thought for a very serious moment or two.

"Actually, 'Pen Dragon' _does _sound kind of good to—"

"You're not naming the wyvern!"

Arthur held his knife up to the firelight, examining its edge. "You know, this whole Dragonlord thing has really gone to your head."

"I wish I were a Kinglord. That would make my life a hell of a lot easier," retorted Merlin, who then suddenly frowned, looking unnerved and distant, as though lost in a memory elusive yet utterly unpleasant. The moment passed, however, and Merlin's face regained his expression of amused obstinacy with such speed that Arthur was sure that he's imagined the whole thing.

"I would have thought that you would have given up on trying to order me around by now, Merlin," said Arthur.

"Did you give yourself a headache with all of that thinking?"

"Merlin!"

"What?"

"Pet wyvern?"

"Oh, that," said Merlin, looking rather surprised at what was either Arthur's adhering to a subject for so long or at Arthur's relative acceptance of his insults. "I could probably get us a wyvern, but we probably wouldn't want to call him 'pet.' And, just so you know, wyverns can't breathe fire. The only way he'd be able to toast our bread would be if he were willing to stand over a flame with bread in his mouth. At least _we_ can use sticks."

Merlin brandished the stick upon which he was toasting a piece of bread at Arthur, as though Arthur required props to understand the content of Merlin's speech. Vaguely nettled, Arthur frowned and turned the rock over in his hands, trying to find a better side for sharpening.

"What kind of dragon can't breathe fire?" he muttered.

Merlin smilied. "You and Aithusa really _are_ on the same page. He's not a fan of wyverns. He seems to thing that they're not sophisticated enough to be considered part of the dragon family. As if _he_ is the pinnacle of sophistication! _I_ personally think that he's being ridiculous about the whole thing. I mean, the 'dragon family' currently consists of _two_ dragons, so I would think that he wouldn't mind having a few cousins here and there."

Arthur opened his mouth to interrupt, to protest that he didn't _really_ want to adopt any pets from the dragon family, that he had only been making conversation, that there was no point discussing pets if Arthur wasn't going to be the one to name them, but he stopped himself.

Merlin was babbling.

It was normal.

It was nice.

"Anyway, you're lucky that wyverns listen to me. Remember that time that you were on your stupid quest for the trident and Gwaine and I followed you and then you yelled at us for coming and complained about how helpful we were being and everything? I found you about to be gutted by a pair of wyverns and 'Dragonlorded them,' as you so eloquently call it, and so you didn't die. You're welcome. Oh, and you were unconscious at the time too, which really isn't all that surprising, because you've spent a _lot_ of time unconscious over the last decade. It's actually been very convenient for me. If I was a sorcerer trying to keep my magic a secret and had a master who didn't get himself hit in the head—not _always_ by me, Arthur, so don't pinch up your face like that, it makes you look like a toad—my secret would have come out _ages _ago and Uther would have had me killed before I knew how to stop it and before you took the throne and—"

Finally, Arthur had to cut in. The topics of Merlin and his secrets and lies and all of the blows to Arthur's head, as well as the reminder of Uther and the difficulties of objectively knowing that he was a prime example of everything in the world that was unnecessarily _cruel_ and loving him all the same, were not particularly happy subjects for Arthur. Besides, Merlin was probably going to need to inhale soon. Speaking _that_ much and _that_ quickly would have been enough to exhaust anyone on a _normal_ day. And this was no normal day for Merlin.

"Hey, Merlin?"

"Yeah?" asked Merlin, inhaling deeply and vindicating Arthur.

"Your bread's on fire."

Merlin swore and withdrew it from the flame, blowing on it furiously. Arthur grinned despite himself as Merlin held up his stake in front of him, surveying the charred brick of what had once been a thick slice of bread. Merlin stared at it distastefully for a few moments before he shrugged, removed it from the stake, and took a bite.

"Oh, Merlin!" said Arthur, laughing. "You're actually going to eat that?"

Merlin broke off what seemed to be a particularly inedible chunk and threw it at Arthur, who dodged it easily. Then Merlin, with his mouth full of bread that barely resembled bread anymore gave an answer that Arthur was sure that any man who had not known Merlin and been exposed to his manners for as many years as Arthur had would have found unintelligible.

"I've eaten worse, Arthur, and _you've_ certainly eaten worse, I can tell you. Besides, I'm starving_. _ Maybe if you would tell me what I've done that's got me so hungry, I might be a little bit more forthcoming with what I _do_ remember!"

Arthur spared a few seconds to wonder why on earth Merlin would be using so many polysyllabic words when each one increased his risk of choking and dying all over again before he answered. "You said that you don't remember anything."

Merlin swallowed, grimacing at the taste. "I _don't,_ but maybe if you told me exactly what moved you to tears—don't look at me like that, I'm not making fun of you—and why everything around us seems demolished, my memory might come back to me."

"I already _told_ you what—" Arthur began, but Merlin interrupted.

"You told me that I fell off of Aithusa and hit a rock and didn't die and then woke up. That's all. And there is no way that that's the whole story."

Arthur did not want to talk about that. Besides, if Merlin couldn't remember, did he need to know? It had been so awful…Arthur wasn't sure that _he_ would want to know if that happened to _him._ His conscience twinged a little bit at the thought, but how many lies of omission had Merlin dealt him over the years, claiming that he kept the truth to himself for Arthur's own good? This would be only fair. He wasn't sure that Merlin needed any more than the _gist_ of what had happened anyway. Not from Arthur, at least. If and when he remembered it on his own…well, he and Arthur could deal with it when it happened. Arthur was fairly sure that it would be best for everyone if that remembering did not happen just yet.

What was more, Arthur had the feeling that the only reason that Merlin was not collapsing from the exhaustion that was evident in every line of his body was because he needed to get some food into him. With every mouthful, Merlin seemed to grow just a bit rosier and droop just a little bit more. Merlin needed sleep, Arthur figured, and from the way that he was shifting uncomfortably every few moments, bending over and lying back and stretching and rearranging himself as he sat on his log, Merlin was pretty damn sore. No, Merlin didn't need to hear what happened, not yet. He needed _sleep_, and Arthur was not about to deny him that.

Arthur didn't dare say as much; Merlin might very well have protested and tried to magic himself awake out of what seemed to be the inherent need to do the opposite of whatever Arthur asked of him, and then Arthur would have had to whack him on the head with a stick to knock him out and _make_ him sleep. And Arthur really didn't want to have to do that.

Not this time, anyway.

It wasn't looking like he'd have to, though, he noticed. Merlin's eyes were spending more time closed than open as he struggled to maneuver the charred lump of bread into his mouth without being particularly aware of either. Arthur stood up and walked over to where Merlin sat, gently taking the toasting stake upon which he'd been leaning and was growing more and more likely to collapse upon and then stab himself with.

Merlin hardly noticed. He just replaced the stick with Arthur's shoulder. Arthur rolled his eyes and tried to figure out a way to get Merlin into a position where he'd be able to sleep at least semi-comfortably.

It was more difficult that he had predicted. While Merlin was hardly a meaty young man, moving him without jostling him was more of a chore than he might have expected. Arthur had been forced to carry Merlin in the past, but they had either been in the middle of a crisis or Merlin had been unconscious. There wasn't time to be careful in _those_ scenarios. This time, however...

Arthur was beginning to grow more sympathetic for his menservants over the years who'd had to drag him to bed when he'd been under the weather, from one of the illnesses that had struck him over the years.

Or from alcohol.

Arthur tried not to think about the distinctly unbalanced ratio of illness/drunkenness when it came to his staggerings through his own bedchambers. He could think about that later.

Finally, he settled on sliding Merlin onto his side off of the log. With as much grace as he could manage, he propped Merlin up with one hand and struggled to unroll Merlin's blanket with the other. When he finally succeeded, he let Merlin's body fall onto his blanket, half proud of himself and half conscious of the fact that Merlin must have been _deeply_ asleep to have slept through _that_ maneuver.

Wiping his brow, he reminded himself that he should not be complaining about this. He'd _wanted_ Merlin to fall asleep. He just hadn't expected it to happen so…immediately.

Merlin finally prone on his back, Arthur shoved his pack under his head as pillow and tossed his own blanket over Merlin's body. Arthur could deal with being chilly for a night. The image of Merlin's body twitching and jerking was still vivid enough that he was willing to deny himself just about anything if it meant making Merlin more sedate. Anything to keep that from having to happen again…

When Merlin was finally settled in what was probably the most comfortable position manageable in their present circumstances, Arthur felt himself beginning to weary. He'd been awake for a long time. Yet still, his brain was buzzing, and every time that he closed his eyes, he'd open them again a few seconds later, checking on the world around them to make sure that everything was okay and nothing would go horribly wrong for just this one night. He was certain that he would not sleep. He was too tired for that. And he felt that he ought to be awake, keeping watch.

Still. He could keep watch with his eyes closed, couldn't he? There was nothing wrong with that, was there? If someone or something came to murder them in their sleeps, surely he would _hear_ them before they could do any real harm. Hearing would be enough.

Did he even really need to hear it? He was a warrior. He was trained to make maximum use of all of his senses. Sight and smell and hearing...they were overrated, he thought dimly, laying on a ground that was damp beneath him, left deliberately undried by Merlin in retaliation for the way that Arthur kept following him around, shivering without a blanket, shifting for comfort. _Feeling,_ that's what was important.

What else did he need? He felt the change in temperature when the fire began to die (but did not have the energy to sit up and stoke it), he felt the ground shake and his hair whip about when Aithusa landed in the clearing (although he did not see why he should open his eyes to look), he felt the dripping on rainwater off of the leaves above his head that had not been felled by the wind of Merlin's terrible storm (but did not bother to wipe them away). No, he could _feel._ That was enough. Arthur would not sleep. He was determined.

Apparently, however, his determination was not quite so diligent as he had hoped, for he _did_ manage to drop off. He managed to drop off so totally and so utterly that his dreams felt more real than did the world around him as he was dragged back into consciousness. Or maybe he just so wished that his dreams were what was real…he was dreaming of Camelot and sunny days and Guinevere and peace and a world in which none of what was happening was happening and no one shook him awake just when he was getting to a good part.

Arthur woke, rubbing his face and vaguely confused for a few moments, unsure of what was happening and what was fading away to be soon forgotten.

Nothing felt right. Whenever he had been awoken as of late, it had been by having something heaved at his head.

This was different.

When he opened his eyes, Arthur realized that it was still dark out and that the only light came from the dying flames of their campfire. He hadn't been asleep for very long.

He glanced over to the other side of the fire to make sure that Merlin was still there and not flailing around for no good reason. When he saw that no one was there, he had just enough time to wake fully up so that he could panic properly before he saw that Merlin was kneeling at his side, his face very white and very drawn and very stricken. When he saw that Arthur was awake, he leant back on his heels and clasped his hands together tightly in the gesture that Arthur had come to recognize as one designed to conceal the fact that he was shaking.

Arthur sat up immediately, all sleepiness gone in an instant, and placed a hand on Merlin's shoulder, unsure whether it was to steady him or just to make sure that this was not just another dream beginning to turn into a nightmare.

But he was there, solid and whole and unbroken and shaking despite all of his efforts to the contrary, skin damp and bloodless, eyes very wide, looking more alert and more scared and somehow more intelligent than he had since he had woken from the series of terrible fits that had managed to saved his life.

"Merlin," said Arthur, his voice strangely calm. "What—"

Merlin just shook his head furiously. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet that Arthur barely heard him but so urgent that even Aithusa's heavy breathing in the clearing adjacent could not drown out the words.

"Arthur," he said. "Arthur, what happened to me?"

Arthur looked at him carefully, unsure. Merlin did not look well, but he _did _seem perfectly aware of his surroundings. "Have you remembered?"

A shudder ran through Merlin's body.

"Enough of it."

Arthur shook his head slightly. It may have been enough for Merlin, but it wasn't enough for him. If Merlin was only beginning to remember, he didn't want to make it worse by flooding him with all of what had happened at once. "Maybe you should just lie down and try to get some more sleep so that—"

"Arthur," Merlin said, voice still deathly quiet but sharp with an authority and determination that contrasted eerily with the fear on his face. "I remember enough."

"You fell off the dragon," said Arthur cautiously, trying not to upset him further.

"I fell off the dragon," Merlin confirmed, averting his gaze and white cheeks reddening slightly with a blush that told Arthur that Merlin was not just repeating what Aithusa had angrily roared at him and what Arthur had disbelievingly stammered at him. Merlin _remembered_ that he was a Dragonlord who had fallen from a dragon.

It was enough.

"Do you remember anything else?" asked Arthur, his voice taking the gentle timbre so rarely heard by a very select few.

Merlin raised his eyes up to meet Arthur's. They were hollow and filled with dread and a strangely saddening self-fear that struck at Arthur's heart. Merlin was afraid of himself, and Arthur found his sympathies overcoming his own fears. It was so easy to forget that Merlin had not been born with a list of instructions and skills, and 'trial by error' tended to be far more devastating when it concerned a sorcerer so powerful as he.

"Arthur, I dreamt…" began Merlin.

"Yes?" prompted Arthur, as mildly as he could.

"Arthur…"

Merlin was beginning to look almost _embarrassed _beneath all of the loathing. Ashamed. _Lonely._

Arthur shook his head at the thought. If Merlin wanted to wallow in shame and spend his time afraid of his own unknown powers, that was just _fine._ But Arthur was going to be damned if he was going to let Merlin think that he was allowed to be lonely.

He wasn't going to let Merlin be alone. Not like this.

"Go on, Merlin," he said.

Merlin must have detected Arthur's support and utter lack of suspicion, for his body visibly relaxed. Beneath his hand, Arthur felt the muscles in Merlin's shoulder loosen, just a little bit.

His voice, however, was still so tight and so strained that Arthur almost felt that it would snap away entirely if raised too loudly.

"Arthur," said Merlin, as though he was grasping for words and had to anchor himself with the familiar name just as Arthur's arm was anchoring his wavering frame to the ground. "Arthur, how the hell am I still alive?"

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	10. Another Step

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine.**

Not for the first time, Merlin wished that there was no such thing as destiny. The idea that everything that happened was always going to happen and that nothing that he did could stop any of it. That any attempts to stop any of it would just make it happen all the same, probably even faster and more devastating than if he hadn't done anything. His "destiny" to guide Arthur into creating the greatest kingdom to have ever existed, as he was told by the Great Dragon when he'd first come to Camelot, had originally filled him with a sense of great importance. After nearly a decade of all but nonexistent progress, however, most of which he had spent as a servant whose counsel counted for nothing and whose existence was a _crime,_ just made him resentful.

And lazy.

He didn't like to admit to the laziness. He'd lost count of how many times he had vented to Gaius about the unfairness of having a destiny. But the fact that, as far as he knew, whatever was going to happen was going to happen no matter what he did to interfere _had_ on occasion rendered him less than particularly motivated to step in. After all, Kilgarrah had told him of Morgana's inevitable descent into evil. Merlin had tried to stop it. The result had been a poisoning and a betrayal and a usurping. He would never not be haunted by the first act-the poisoning of his friend by his own hand-or the other two, which seemed to him as direct results. He had only wanted to help, to save her...Good intentions, Merlin had found, were _irrelevant_ when it came to destiny.

And that was a hard concept for him to accept, even after all this time.

But what he resented the most was not the unfairness of being the most powerful sorcerer alive and forced to live as a servant or the idea that _trying_ did not seem to matter where destiny was concerned. It was the fact that all of his efforts to protect Arthur and remain by his side and sacrifice himself felt…hollow. He had become a master at second-guessing himself. Was he drinking poison on the prince's behalf because he had faith in Arthur, or was it because the choice to do so had been made eons before he had even been born? Was he degrading himself by submitting to Arthur's less than respectful demands as a servant out of a sense of patience, or was it because he was being guided to do so? Did all of the things that he had done for the greater _good_ really say nothing about his quality of character? Or was he just the poor peasant boy, unskilled and clumsy, smart-mouthed and unintelligent, whose only gifts had been granted him by some higher power of prophecy because he was of the right age and concurrency with the man who would become the Once and Future King?

He had never been able to give any sort of satisfying answer. And there was no longer anyone with whom he could discuss the questions. Not with Gaius gone.

He'd considered bringing it up to Arthur; after all, hadn't he listened to all of Arthur's insecurities regarding his role as king? But he had dismissed the thought almost immediately, although not without a bit of hesitancy. Arthur would understand, yes, but Merlin was afraid that he might understand a little bit _too_ much for his own good. After all, the destiny of which Merlin despaired involved Arthur. He'd been told from the beginning that their fates were entwined. Two halves of the same coin. Half of the same whole. Whatever doubts Merlin had about his role in the creation of Albion, he did not need to transfer them over to Arthur. Arthur tended to look troubled whenever Merlin mentioned, with any degree of seriousness, their shared destiny, and Merlin never pressed the matter. Arthur had enough to worry about.

Then there was Guinevere. Gwen would listen, Merlin knew, and she would make the appropriate expressions of anger and sympathy and gentle reprimands that Gaius would have, but she was Arthur's wife just as much as she was Merlin's friend. He did not want to burden her with that knowledge any more than he did Arthur. Besides, he hadn't told Guinevere of his magic because he did not want her to have to betray _Arthur_ by keeping such a secret from him or have to betray _Merlin_ by revealing it. He did not want to add _this_ to her plate.

And Gwaine…Merlin had very nearly spilled out the whole thing to Gwaine one day. He seemed the ideal candidate. Along with Guinevere and Arthur (if Arthur was in a particularly honest mood that day), Gwaine was one of his very best friends in the world. So many people tended to keep their confidences from the knight, fearing for the loose tongue that often accompanied men on trips to taverns. But not Gwaine. Gwaine was one of the most loyal people that Merlin had ever met, and he had never once suspected the possibility any betrayals from him. The belief had only been confirmed once the secret of his magic had been revealed. _Everyone_ shunned him, especially at the beginning. Those who grew to support him did so in _spite_ of his magic, usually, at first. Gwaine saw Merlin's magic, thought about it, and about a minute later, had shrugged his shoulders and accepted it. Yes, Gwaine would have listened and helped.

But Merlin hadn't said anything. One of the best things about his friendship with Gwaine was Gwaine's distance from all things destined. Arthur was destined to be the greatest king that the world had ever known. Guinevere was destined to be his queen. Merlin was apparently destined to interfere with everything of importance that happened around him. But Gwaine? Gwaine was a sort of happy accident, Merlin thought, that had snuck in without any destiny and without any preconceived loyalties and without any larger influence. Gwaine was _free,_ and Merlin wanted to keep him that way. So he hadn't said anything.

Merlin's loneliness had decreased exponentially since his magic had been revealed, once Arthur had welcomed him back into Camelot and all of his friends could _truly_ be his friends. But without Gaius…there were just some things that Merlin hadn't yet been able to talk to anyone else about. Between the freedom to complain about his destiny and the fact that Gaius knew that Merlin was a powerful sorcerer and _understood_ that being a powerful sorcerer did not mean that he did not need to grow into mastering his powers and Gaius' magical _knowledge…_

If only Gaius had had a destiny to see Albion as well. If only he was still...

There was no point in thinking about it, Merlin reminded himself. Yet, as Arthur had stared at him, nervous and confused and uncertain, in the middle of the night and pitch blackness, telling him about how he had survived falling hundreds of feet off of a dragon's back without so much as a broken bone to show for it, Merlin found himself yearning for his old mentor.

Arthur had just finished telling about the _second_ bolt of lightning that had struck Merlin when Merlin had stood up and walked away from their dying campfire. In truth, he hadn't remembered quite as much as Arthur seemed to believe, and everything that Arthur was saying...well, it was somewhat overwhelming, he thought.

He heard Arthur shove himself up and crash after him in the darkness, clumsy in his haste and concern. From the sudden heavy _squelch_ behind him, closely followed by a string of swears and what sounded strangely like "Not again!" Merlin surmised that Arthur had fallen down in the mud, but he was too preoccupied to turn around and laugh.

Merlin had to see it.

It didn't make any sense, he knew. He _had_ seen it, of course. Hell, he'd woken up in the middle of it. He didn't suspect Arthur of lying or even particularly exaggerating. He _did_ think that Arthur was overplaying the seriousness of the storm a little bit. From the way that he told it, Merlin had gone on some sort of unconscious magical rampage intent on destroying the world. Yes, there were felled trees everywhere and it did seem that everything that he had not magically dried upon waking was soaked, but the way that Arthur had described the wind just seemed…unlikely. Even with magic. He did not think that Arthur was making it up; he could just see for himself that Arthur had been badly frightened by the whole affair, and Merlin knew what fear could do to perception.

Yet, as Merlin reentered the patch of woods that had been rendered into a clearing by Merlin's storm and looked at _it,_ he had to admit that not _everything_ that Arthur had related could be attributed to problems in perception. While the terribly destructive nature of the storm and the violence of Merlin's fits (which Merlin found himself seriously doubting—even _he_ couldn't be _that_ powerful) were easy to dismiss as inventions of a frightened mind, _it_ was not.

He stopped a few feet in front of it and just looked.

In a way, it was very beautiful. Merlin wasn't sure if it was because the crystal-or _glass_, as Arthur had mistakenly called it-boulder was inherently lovely in itself or if it was just because it was so out of place in the middle of these black woods. It seemed to shine in the darkness, the hue and glow of moonlight, so very bright and distinct that the actual moon above his head seemed pathetic in comparison. It was somehow milky white and transparent at the same time and, as Merlin reached out to touch it, completely smooth. Arthur had said that there were lumps and imperfections in the surface, but Merlin could not see them. Either Arthur had been confused or the magic of the boulder—for Merlin could not deny the tingling sensation that all but emanated from it—had perfected what had been imperfect. Either way, it was…beautiful.

Yet somehow sinister. He heard Arthur approach, but he did not come within five feet of _Merlin,_ let alone the crystal rock in front of them. Merlin pitied him, just a little bit. Arthur was completely out of his element, and it was beginning to show. He glanced back at the king and was not surprised to see the look of apprehension on his face, apprehension that Merlin was positive did not stem just from what he had seen the last time that Merlin had been in the area. Arthur's nerves seemed…instinctual. Unconscious. Reactive to something that Arthur did not acknowledge. Arthur could sense that there was something strange about this place, and Merlin knew that if _Arthur_ could sense it, it was very powerful.

As for himself, the charge in the air and the brightness of the crystal in front of him were almost overpowering, like he felt whenever he spent too much time in a small room with too many overly fragrant flowers. Almost dizzy, but at the same time more aware than he had ever been. He found himself unwilling to blink, and his eyes began to water. They were almost _tingling...__  
_

In the back of his mind, Merlin was almost amused, knowing that he probably should not remain so close. His history with crystals was not the most positive.

But, as he always was, there was too much curiosity for him to do the smart thing and leave it well enough alone.

Almost absently, Merlin began to circle the crystal rock, trailing his fingertips upon the surface, cool and dry and calm and compelling…

He walked.

"Merlin."

There was something about it, he thought distantly. He was staring at it, heedless of his footfalls, just…staring, as he always did at such materials, but no visions appeared to him. No images of death or destruction or doom. Just whiteness. Coldness and perfection and silence and clear and white.

He walked.

"Merlin…"

He was sweating. He could feel it. He wondered if he should take his hand off of the crystal. It seemed somehow blasphemous for him to do something so obscene as _sweat _on it. But his hand—and his whole _arm_, for that matter—was devoid of perspiration. He just kept moving, fingers trailing the same path over and over again as he repeated his circles around the stone.

He walked.

"Merlin!"

He could see the pit where he had fallen, the pit that he had climbed out of, hungry and stiff and complaining, the pit that had been rock. It was no more than an indentation in the surface, and he wondered serenely why whatever magic had smoothed out the lumps that Arthur had spoken of had not filled in the pit that had formed to absorb his fall from the heavens. Still walking, he considered it for what must have been only a moment. It may have been an imperfection in the otherwise flawless crystal that sat absurdly in the forest, but it was _right._ If anything, Merlin's head began to feel lighter and more disconnected and more _itchy_ the longer that he looked at it, a sort of softness behind his eyes and his ears and his mouth. It felt good.

He walked.

"_Merlin!" _

From somewhere far away, Merlin felt a pair of hands grasp him by the shoulders and _tug_ at him, but his body didn't move an inch. He was rooted to the crystal. The hands, apparently unsatisfied, grabbed him around the chest and _heaved_, trying with all of their strength to disconnect him from where he was touching the crystal. Merlin didn't like that. He didn't want to be distracted. The hands let go of him, and he found himself smiling. This was better.

Then the hands made a grab for Merlin's arm, the arm that was connected to the hand that was connected to the fingers that were touching the crystal. Trying to pull him away. Trying to interfere. Merlin didn't like that at _all._

So Merlin, still gazing intently at the crystal, extended his free arm in the direction from which the hands were grasping at him and _flexed_ his mind. In an instant, the hands let go of him and he heard a _crash_ that told him that the body that had been connected to the hands that had pulled at him had been blasted back. He smiled.

He was troubled, though. He hadn't felt the slight tingling in his eyes that he always felt when he performed magic, when his eyes burned golden. It didn't make sense. He thought for a moment that the pale rays of a struggling dawn were affecting him, but that couldn't have been it. It just didn't make any sense...

Then, all at once, it did, and he smiled again. His eyes had been tingling this whole time. His eyes must have been burning like this from the moment that he had made contact with this beautifully cold crystal. Light from the rest of the world didn't matter.

Then, suddenly, he didn't want to walk anymore. He stood, stock still, in front of the crystal stone from which he had emerged, whole and human again, palm flat against the surface. From what seemed like very far away, he heard what sounded like a pair of feet approaching him. But feet didn't matter. Hell, he could barely even feel his own. Nothing mattered.

Nothing mattered except that he remembered something.

He hadn't blinked in the past few minutes, not since he had started his circling. That seemed silly. Why wouldn't he blink? Blinking was fundamental. He wondered for a moment whether it was impossible to blink when his eyes were burning with the magical fire that seemed to frighten so many.

His eyes were watering.

Merlin faced the crystal stone and placed his other hand on its surface, right next to his other hand. He closed his eyes, and he felt tears streaming down his face. The darkness surrounded him, such a stark contrast to the brilliant white transparency that had been so mesmerizing him.

He breathed.

Then, in an instant, everything flashed before him. Colors and sounds and sensations and so much _pain_ and he was dizzy but he was so very _alive_ and he remembered why he was here and he remembered why he had come and he focused and felt his mind flex…and then _stretch_ until something inside of him snapped_. _

Then, Merlin saw.

And he remembered.

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	11. Returnings And Renewals

**Disclaimer: _Merlin_ is not mine.**

There were times—not a whole lot of them and not too frequently—that Arthur really wished that it had been some _other_ man who had saved his life for the first time all those years ago. That it had been some other man that Uther had forced on him as manservant. That it had been some other man who had remained by his side for so many years.

Of course, he now knew perfectly well that he'd be dead a thousand times over if that man had been anyone other than Merlin. He _knew_ that. But sometimes, some days, that he could not help but wish otherwise.

This was one of those days.

It wasn't because Merlin had blasted him backward. He was already covered in muck and blood and bruises. What was one more blow? He was even growing unfortunately accustomed to being blasted in various directions by magic. No, Arthur was not beginning to regret his and Merlin's comradery over the years because of Merlin's most recent attack.

Although he _was_ bleeding again. And from the _head. _

It wasn't even because he'd had to watch with the increasingly unpleasant mixture of boredom and alarm as Merlin had spent half the night walking in circles around the lump of glass in the middle of the forest, ignoring his calls. Arthur had spent most of the last day and a half waiting on Merlin; at least this time, thought Arthur, he wasn't having fits in the middle of the storm from hell.

But then, Arthur had begun to realize that Merlin was not just ignoring him. The first few times that he'd called Merlin's name, he'd figured that Merlin was just inexplicably annoyed and snubbing Arthur as he thought about whatever it was that sorcerers thought about in such situations. It hadn't taken him very long—comparatively—to realize that Merlin wasn't really _hearing_ him.

He'd heard Merlin complain about crystals before—was that what was happening? Merlin was…talking to the crystal? Mind-melding with the glass? Arthur had taken the time to curse himself for not asking what Merlin meant when he talked about crystals. Granted, he _did_ usually bring them up when he was complaining about destiny and fate and Arthur, but it hadn't really occurred to him that he'd ever be in a situation like this.

Was he _never_ going to understand magic?

Eventually, he found that he didn't need any mystical understanding to feel that he ought to interfere with whatever it was that Merlin was doing. Dawn was struggling to break, Merlin's footfalls had formed a trench around the glass boulder from his hours of circling, and Arthur's patience was gone. So he had approached Merlin to pull him away from the glass.

Which had not worked.

Arthur had always said that Merlin weighed about as much as a pair of pillows and possessed almost as much strength. It was therefore something of a surprise as he tried to pull Merlin free of the glass, pulling with all of his strength and not feeling Merlin budge so much as an inch. Finally, as he had seized Merlin around the chest and planted his feet firmly to yank him backward, Merlin had rather stiffly swung a hand back toward Arthur. An instant later, Arthur found himself flying backward through the air and somehow found the time to become irritated that this was happening _again_ before he hit the tree trunk, bruising his back and giving him a lovely little scalp wound.

He would later be too ashamed to admit that his immediate concern had _not_ been for his afflicted spine and rather for the scar that was doubtless going to mark his forehead _forever._ Plus, scalp wounds always bled a _lot,_ so that injury was somewhat more distracting than his back.

Besides, it only took him about thirty seconds to feel his feet, wipe the blood out of his eyes as best he could, and push himself up to consider throwing something at Merlin. But then, before he could make any sort of decision, he saw Merlin turn his head backward to Arthur, as though looking at him. Yet there was no way that Merlin was seeing him. His eyes were shut tightly, although Arthur was positive that he could see them moving back and forth, rolling up and down, beneath the lids. When Merlin finally opened them, his eyes glowed golden.

Almost immediately, however, Merlin's eyes had closed again and he fallen, going limp as if all of his limbs had been kept upright by ropes that were very suddenly severed. There was a very clear instant, just before he hit the ground, that Arthur realized three things:

First, that magic was extremely irritating.

Second, that Merlin was going to pass out _again._

Third, that none of what had happened over the last day and a half would have happened if Arthur had just had a nice and normal and unremarkable manservant for the better part of the last decade.

Then the instant passed and Arthur was up, shoving himself away from the tree trunk against which he'd been thrown. He started toward Merlin, staggering so much that he wondered if he'd hurt his back and his head more seriously than he'd thought. He fell to his knees and began to use his hands to steady him as he moved forward. He was _not_ crawling, of course. Kings did not _crawl._ They just…moved as was most practical in any given situation, and what was most practical was checking on Merlin before Arthur did something stupid like collapse. _One_ of them, he figured, ought to be mobile at any given time.

Then, before Arthur reached Merlin's prone body, the young man opened his eyes. Blinking rapidly, as though he had suddenly gone from pitch blackness into brightness, he pushed himself upward and stood. His body gave one massive _shudder_ that ran through him, from head to toe, and he gave a few little jumps, just like Arthur did when he was trying to return circulation to his feet. Then Merlin looked at Arthur.

"Hullo, Arthur. What are you doing on the ground?"

Arthur wanted to punch him. If he had not been in an unlikely position for doing so, he knew that he might have given into the temptation. He pulled back, raising his hands up from the mud and sat on his heels, trying to look regal and, he was sure, failing miserably. From how he was sure that he looked just then, _Merlin_ probably looked more regal than he did.

A chill ran down his aching spine at _that_ thought.

Merlin, looking positively _perky_ considering all that had happened to him that day, hopped out of his trench and walked over to Arthur, extending a hand. Arthur allowed Merlin to yank him back to his feet. As he looked up at the sorcerer, wishing for the thousandth time that _he_ was the taller of the pair, he noticed that Merlin's eyes were bright. Almost feverish.

He shoved Merlin away, angrier than he'd thought. "Would you stop _doing_ that?"

Merlin looked genuinely surprised. "Doing what?"

Arthur glared. "Oh, I don't know...Maybe doing something magical and stupid and strange and then _fainting_ like a little girl who forgot her smelling salts!"

Merlin cocked an eyebrow. "Do little girls really get smelling salts? I thought that girls only got them when they grew up enough to wear those really tight dresses with the laces in the back."

What the hell was he talking about?

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Merlin raised his eyebrows. "If the laces are pulled too tight, they constrict the airways and ladies end up fainting because of—"

"I'm not talking about dresses, Merlin! Or why you know so much about them! Which you can damn well explain later!"

Merlin just shrugged, his eyes still unnaturally bright. "Then what are you talking about?"

"You. Passing out. _Again._"

Merlin crossed his arms over his chest. "It's not like that's _my_ fault, Arthur. I don't do it on purpose. Besides, you make it sound like I spend more time passed out than I do awake."

Arthur gave half of a laugh. "Today you do!"

"Well, I've had something of a busy day!" said Merlin defensively.

Arthur snorted. "How do you know? You seemed to think that I was lying."

"I thought that you were _exaggerating._ There's a difference."

"Only a _little _differe—wait. You _thought_ that I was exaggerating?"

"That's what I just said."

"Thought…as in past tense?"

Merlin suddenly grinned_._ His eyes were so bright and so serious but his smile so genuine…a shiver ran through Arthur.

"Arthur, I remembered. All of it."

Arthur gaped at him. "You remembered?"

Merlin nodded, looking entirely comfortable with the situation. "Yep."

"Just to be clear," said Arthur slowly. "You walked around a lump of glass for half the night in some kind of must-ignore-Arthur-unless-it's-to-blast-him-backwards trance and then you pass out and then you tell me that you _remembered?"_

Merlin just looked at him as though he had lost his wits.

"Yes, Arthur," he said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "

Arthur groaned. His life would make so much more sense if there was no such thing as magic.

But he shook his head. He could gripe about magic any time. Now…

"You really remembered?"

Merlin just nodded, and Arthur's heart sped up.

"What happened, then?" Arthur winced at the eagerness in his voice. He had to know...did Merlin really remember everything? If he did, could he explain it to Arthur?

Merlin nodded and Arthur bit his lip.

"You know…"

"What?"

"_How_ it happened?"

Merlin just kept smiling his strange smile.

"Yes."

"How?

"I did it," he said simply.

Then he turned to the side and threw up everything in his stomach.

Arthur stood, still trying to regain his own balance as he watched Merlin double over into a crouch on the ground, unsure of what he ought to do. Uncertainly, he walked to Merlin's side—the side _not_ coated with sick—and knelt beside him, putting one hand on the back of his neck.

Merlin was apparently not so withdrawn that he could not register the gesture and turn his head to give Arthur a side-eyed glance of incredulity.

Arthur scowled and took his hand back.

"It's what Guinevere does when I don't feel well," Arthur muttered. "She said it's what her mother used to do for her…"

Merlin just sat up, laughing. He was still shaking, and tears were leaking out of the corners of his eyes. This did not overly alarm Arthur; he had seen Merlin vomit many times over the years and, on the occasions when he was not reacting by falling off of a dragon or something equally inconvenient, Merlin usually shook and wept. It was an involuntary reflex, Merlin had told him the first time that it had happened, glaring through the tears, as Arthur had laughed at Merlin for crying. It hadn't helped that he had been vomiting as yet another demonstration that he was not exactly an expert in holding his liquor.

But that had been many years ago.

"Arthur," coughed Merlin, averting his eyes and pointing vaguely with a trembling finger at their haphazard camp in the pale light of the sunrise. "Could you—"

Arthur was off to find a cup before Merlin could finish his sentence. He didn't need to have magic to know what Merlin was asking of him. Besides, if he did it before Merlin could ask, it would feel much more as though he was being considerate and doing a favor rather than heeding Merlin's requests.

Reaching the ashes of their campfire and the scattered remnants of their most recent meal, Arthur fumbled around until he found a cup. Momentarily stumped, Arthur tried to remember where they had left their flasks with their clean water. If only he'd had more sleep…

He heard Merlin coughing and shrugged. He dipped the cup into a particularly deep puddle on the forest floor and carried it back to Merlin, who was rising to his feet. Reaching him, Arthur handed over the cup. Merlin took it and had the grace to look grateful for about half of a second. Then, he looked down at it and made a funny face.

"Puddle water? I throw up, and your solution is to bring me puddle water? Thanks, Arthur, you're a true friend."

Arthur opened his mouth to give a crushing retort. However, before he could think of one appropriately crushing, Merlin spilled the puddle on the ground with a slightly apologetic look and muttered something that Arthur did not understand.

Then, he saw some fresh water—clear and sparkling and distinctly devoid of moss—well up from the bottom of the wooden cup. And Arthur understood.

"Stupid magic," he mumbled. Merlin, who had taken a huge sip of water and was swishing it around in his mouth, just rolled his eyes before spitting. Then he swallowed the rest of the water in a single gulp.

"Hey," said Merlin. "That stupid magic saved my life. And _yours,_ plenty of times in the past, in case you've forgotten."

Arthur glared. "No. You do not get to bring up all the times you saved my life whenever I'm mad at you. It's completely unfair."

"Like how you like to bring up my lying?"

Arthur almost laughed in disbelief. "Really? You want to get into that again?"

Merlin bit his lip. "Get into what? I forgot what I just said."

"I thought you might have. Anyway. Anything you'd like to share?"

Merlin stared at him. "Like what?"

"Like why you walked around that glass thing for _hours_ and threw up and passed out—stop smiling, I _know_ that it wasn't in that order—and claim that you remember and know everything. Like _how_ the hell everything has happened."

Merlin nodded, raising his hands in surrender. "For one thing, it's not made of glass. It's a crystal. Don't make that face, there _is_ a difference. Normally you'd be right, though. Lightning striking sand _would_ make glass, I think."

"Then why are you saying that it isn't glass?"

"Because it wasn't any normal lightning. It was _magic_ lightning, which made magic glass, and magic glass is crystal."

Arthur waited a moment, hoping that Merlin was planning on elaborating.

"Merlin, if you think that I don't know that you just put 'magic' in front of something so that you don't have to explain it to me, then you—"

Merlin looked slightly put out that Arthur was pursuing the topic. "I'm getting to it! And it _was_ magical lightning. The whole thing—the storm, the lightning, the wind, all of it—was magical."

"Because of this place?" Arthur asked, knowing that he was wrong but trying to prompt Merlin to get where he was going.

Merlin hesitated. "No. There _is_ magic in these woods. Strange magic. Aithusa's felt it, too. But it wasn't the woods. It was something else."

He was hedging, and Arthur knew it. He didn't know why, exactly. Merlin had already admitted it. Why was he avoiding it now? "Something? Or someone?"

Merlin just looked at him, face full of something so close to pity that Arthur almost did not detect the pleading. "Do you really need me to say it, Arthur?"

Arthur just crossed his arms over his chest and stood as tall as he could, staring pointedly at him until Merlin got the message. After a moment, Merlin began pacing back and forth, and Arthur groaned inwardly. Merlin pacing was never the sign of a conversation that would be particularly calm.

Merlin took several deep breaths and began looking in every direction that was not at Arthur as he began to speak.

"It was because of me. All of this…damage, this destruction, this madness…it was because of me. This was just another patch of trees and now…look around it. Most of the trees have been felled, and those that haven't were either struck by lightning or stripped of bark. Those trees won't grow back, Arthur, they won't. What I've done…it can't be undone. Well, maybe by me, somehow, because I...I just…don't know. But this place…it's dead. And it won't be coming back. I did it without even meaning to. Even unconscious, I placed my life over everything else that might have been around."

Arthur was taken aback. "Merlin, it was just a bunch of trees. There's a whole forest of them out there—"

Merlin did not seem willing to be interrupted.

"But what if they weren't just trees? Have you thought of that, Arthur? What if I'd fallen into a town or a road or a farm? Do you think it would have made any difference to me if I had landed on something more important than just a bunch of trees? And I wasn't even awake for it. I was _unconscious. _I don't even know that I could do it if I _tried,"_ said Merlin, anguished and ashamed. "Don't you see? I don't know what the hell I'm doing. You laugh whenever I tell you that I'm dangerous. Well, let me tell you now, I'm not so dangerous because of the spells that I know. It's because of the spells that I _don't _know. I controlled the heavens and I controlled the earth and I turned rock into crystal trees into dust and life into death and death into life…oh, gods, Arthur. Can't I die?"

Arthur shook his head back and forth, wishing that Merlin would look at him. Wishing that he could see Merlin's face. "Surely you don't _want_ to—"

Merlin waved a hand dismissively, staring at the ground as he paced. "Of course I don't _want_ to die. And there have been plenty of times that I thought I would. Illness and injury and attack…I've been close. But all of those times…it's been a _process._ Dy_ing._ This time…I should have _died._ There was no survival. No process. No time for me to be _dying_. I should have been _dead._ But…look around you, Arthur. Look at these dead woods. _This_ is what I did instead of dying. And it's not right. It's not natural. I knew that I was…I _thought_ that I knew…Well, what can I say? Prophecies are not known for their clarity of phrasing."

"Merlin—"

Merlin looked as though he hadn't heard Arthur. Perhaps he hadn't.

"I've been wondering about that," said Merlin, his voice taking an alarmingly upbeat tone. "It was my destiny to turn you into the greatest king the world has ever known. You're on your way to that. You don't need me anymore. You _don't,_ Arthur, not if you behave yourself and stay in Camelot without running off like a fool on quests like this like you _ought_ to. My destiny is fulfilled, isn't it? I did it. Congratulations to me. So I can die, right? If my destiny was to make you a great king, I had to live that long, didn't I? But now…if destiny is done with me, does it need me anymore? I've been thinking, especially since we left Camelot…I've been thinking that this is it. _Really_ it. I can die now. But I _didn't_. It's so...unfair."

"Merlin, you're _alive,"_ Arthur reminded him, hearing with some surprise the urgency in his voice. "Why should you think that that's unfair when—"

Merlin just shook his head. "Because you would have died, Arthur. Gwen would have died. Gwaine would have died. Gaius would have died. I haven't met a sorcerer who wouldn't have died. How is it fair that I didn't? I should be able to. But now…maybe I just have to wait until we get there. Where we're going. Maybe _then _I'll be able to die."

A chill ran through Arthur. He suspected that it had nothing to do with the dampness of his clothing. "Merlin, don't talk like that. It sounds like you _want—"_

Merlin's pace began to slow. "It _has_ to be fate that I didn't die, Arthur, some destiny that no one told me about. To live to do what we have to do or to die when we get there. It had to be fate. Otherwise…I shouldn't have lived. No one should have this power."

Finally, Merlin stopped moving and met Arthur's gaze. The look on his face—desperate that Arthur believe him yet frantic in his need for Arthur to disagree.

Arthur didn't know what to say. He felt strangely guilty. How many times had _he_ thought that it bordered on obscene for Merlin to have as much power as he did? But to hear Merlin say it…it made Arthur tremendously sad for his friend.

Arthur cleared his throat and thought for a moment. Merlin needed an answer this time, he somehow knew.

"But…"

"_What,_ Arthur?" asked Merlin, so sharply that it sounded angry.

"What if you do?" asked Arthur, very quietly.

Merlin stood very still. "What do you mean?"

Arthur took a few steps toward Merlin. Cautiously.

"What if you _do_ have this much power?"

Merlin sighed and stopped pacing. "Then I had better not fall off of any more dragons."

Merlin took a few steps backward and leant heavily against the crystal, rubbing his face with his hands and looking suddenly exhausted. Arthur had the impression that Merlin had had about enough of this conversation as he could manage.

That he could manage before breakfast, anyway. Especially since he'd thrown up all of his dinner.

_This,_ Arthur could handle. He still didn't know much about magic. But breakfast? Arthur knew breakfast.

"So, Merlin," said Arthur, as lightly as he could manage. "I'm hungry."

Merlin looked at his boots, but Arthur could see enough of his profile to see the smile. "What do you expect me to do about that?"

"_I_ made dinner."

"Which _I_ threw up."

"So?"

"_So,_ it must not have been much of a dinner."

"Don't blame the food. You _magically_ threw up."

"Can't know that for sure."

"If I made such a vomit-inducing dinner, why should you want me to make breakfast?"

"It's the principle of the—"

Merlin cut himself off as he raised his head and looked up at Arthur, an expression of surprise replacing that of exasperation. "Arthur? You're head's bleeding."

Arthur snorted. "What, you just noticed? Thanks, Merlin. You know, _this_ is why I bring you puddle water."

Merlin didn't answer. He just stood there, cocking his head back and forth at Arthur, as though he was _evaluating_ him. He bit his lip, looking as though he was trying to fight a smile, and glanced at the crystal behind him.

"Come here," said Merlin, the innocence in his voice clearly designed to convince Arthur to approach.

Arthur was not particularly inclined to do so.

"Why?"

Merlin waved the question aside. "Just…come here."

Arthur walked a few very suspicious steps forward. He didn't think that Merlin would deliberately try to do him harm, but Merlin had been going on and on about death and destruction and how they were associated with this crystal, and now he was beckoning Arthur forward? _He_ did not have any super magical powers that would keep any crystals from killing him.

"Put your hand on the crystal," said Merlin. He looked nervous.

Arthur laughed aloud. "No."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "Just do it."

"No!" answered Arthur. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I tend to get seriously injured whenever I get near that thing."

"Not this time."

"No."

"I promise!"

"No."

"Arthur!"

Arthur sighed and put his palm on the crystal, not entirely sure why he was giving in.

The crystal was very cool, despite the growing sunlight and humidity of the soaked clearing as it began to dry. He could see his reflection, shadowy and indistinct against the milky perfection. Even through the vaguery he could see that he was not in his most becoming state. The darkness on the white of his forehead where he was wounded, still trickling down toward his eyes. His hair sticking up in every direction. The slump of his shoulders and curve of his back that _really_ made him wonder about his spine…but he maintained his touch on the crystal, enjoying the feel beneath his fingers. Very smooth and very cold…he opened his mouth to ask Merlin how it could be that way when he saw Merlin's hand reach down and touch the crystal as well. Arthur turned his head to the side to face Merlin.

To Arthur's very great surprise, Merlin lifted his free hand and placed it on Arthur's head, palm flat and atop Arthur's wound. Then, Merlin's eyes glowed gold.

It occurred to Arthur that he ought to be angry with Merlin for using magic on him—he _had_ forbidden the act, save in cases of extreme emergency—but he just couldn't do it. He was too peaceful. Comfortable. He could still see everything around him—Merlin, the crystal, the dead woods around them—but it was a distant sight, serene and cool and pleasant. Detached. He even felt so distant from his body that his aches and pains began to leave him. He felt his back straighten and his shoulders right themselves, as though they had never been pounded against a tree trunk. Deep below the tranquility, he felt as though his heart was suddenly energized, and that each beat sent just a little bit more freshness to his entire body. He felt…clean.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the haze left him, and Arthur felt himself blinking rapidly. Merlin's hand withdrew from Arthur's forehead and Arthur removed his hand from the crystal, almost unwillingly. Coming back to himself, he looked at Merlin and saw that the young man had a sort of nervous curiosity to his face. Arthur felt a dripping sensation on his face and wiped with the back of his hand, oddly unannoyed, despite the fact that his wound still seemed to be leaking. Looking at his hand as he drew it away, Arthur expected to see blood smeared across it.

But there was only sweat.

Arthur whipped his back toward the crystal and focused once more on his reflection. His body stood straight and tall. His hair was still mussed, but his neck was upright and unquavering below. His slouch was gone. His face was more difficult to make out, and he realized that some color had returned to him. He could see enough, however, to make out that his head wound had vanished. When he ran his fingers over his forehead, he felt only smoothness beaded with perspiration.

He was healed.

Astounded, Arthur turned toward Merlin. Unable to speak, he just looked at Merlin, who smiled.

"By the way," he said casually. "I figured out what the crystal can do."

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**Thank you for reading! The story of why Merlin fell from the dragon coming in the next chapter. **

**Reviews are always appreciated! **


	12. Cause And Effect

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine.**

Merlin had known Arthur for nearly a decade and, even now, when his secret was no longer a secret, he knew Arthur well enough to know that Arthur would never know him nearly so well. There had never been any lies from Arthur, not really, and while Merlin had to admit that Arthur's freedom of speech with him probably had something to do with the fact that Merlin had always been far too unimportant for anyone to particularly heed anything that he said about the prince, it had not taken long for him to be able to predict what Arthur would do in just about any situation. He wasn't always right, of course, but the knowledge _did_ nevertheless tend to come in handy when he was trying to fulfill a destiny that required them both to survive long enough to get to the fulfilling.

It also came in handy, Merlin knew, when it came to lying.

Yet even after all of those years, he had never been able to figure out how Arthur would react if Merlin were to tell him of his magic. He _still_ didn't know. He had come up with plenty of scenarios—acceptance, exile, execution, imprisonment, attack, break down, forgiveness…but he could never decide. Later, of course, he found out that Arthur had thrown all caution and common sense to the wind and managed to go through _all_ of Merlin's imagined scenarios in little more than a month, but in the days before, he just did not know. Not telling was easier. Inaction. Waiting. Indecision.

Now, nearly a year after his secret had come out, Merlin was firmly of the opinion that it would not have been nearly so bad if he had just told Arthur, taken action and done it _his_ way. Even though things _had_ more or less turned out well, letting Arthur find out on his own and feel the betrayal so deeply and all at once and without explanation did not seem so good an idea as it had in the days before he'd dared broach the subject. _Why_ he couldn't have just brought it up on some _normal_ day, devoid of emergencies or pranks or shortcuts, seemed so ridiculous in hindsight. It all could have been so much simpler if he had just _communicated_ before it was too late for him to be properly heard. He _knew_ that.

Which is why he was so angry with himself as he faced a shaken Arthur and tried to come up with a way to tell him of his most recent betrayal. The lie of omission that had, as far as Merlin had been able to figure, led him to fall off of a dragon. The lie that could have so easily been the truth, and all of this mess could have been avoided. Hell, maybe they could have even reached their destination by now.

Not that Merlin was particularly eager for what was sure to be a somewhat _heated_ confrontation between himself and the sorceress who was waiting for them. Her own inexplicable survival aside, he couldn't imagine that she would be very happy with him. Not after their last encounter. Although now that _he_ had been struck by lightning, he couldn't help but feel that it wasn't so bad an experience. But then, _he_ had been hastened to recovery from horrible injuries by the strike. She hadn't been healed so much as she had been…blown up.

Merlin allowed that there might be a slight difference in perspective on the subject.

But it wasn't _her_ perspective that he ought to be focusing on at that moment. He shook his head and looked at Arthur, who kept rubbing his hand over his forehead that had been marred by a bloody wound between bites of the rather meager breakfast that Merlin had thrown together, trying to busy himself with a project that would distract him from Arthur's accusations and give him time to figure out a way to explain what he had done.

Merlin picked at his own food, sitting crosslegged across from Arthur, who was perched atop a log a few feet away. He wasn't particularly hungry, but when he had said so, Arthur had just stared at him until he followed the claim up with "…but I'm going to eat it all anyway."

He took a halfhearted bite of what he told Arthur was a magical type of woodland breakfast salad. Fortunately, Arthur was still so ignorant of the majority of magic that he did not question Merlin claim after he had satisfied himself on the fact that it wasn't vaguely poisonous. Merlin didn't see why it was necessary for Arthur to know that he was eating acorn paste. Even as he was trying to find new ways to hate himself for lying to Arthur, he did not feel guilty for _this_ particular fib. Besides, of all of the things that he had served Arthur over the years, acorn paste was hardly the least objectionable.

He supposed that he was lucky that Arthur was willing to even _taste_ something with 'magic' in the title. After all, it had taken all of two minutes after Arthur had figured out that he'd been healed to start harping on Merlin about what he had done. Merlin still wasn't sure whether or not he was annoyed by it. Yes, Arthur had a _slight_ point. But he was _healed._ Surely that was not something that he ought to be complaining about. If anything, he should have been complaining about the acorn paste.

"Merlin," Arthur had said, dogging Merlin's steps as he'd tried to gather acorns without Arthur realizing why Merlin was gathering them. "You healed me."

"Yep," Merlin had answered, hoping that Arthur could just satisfy himself with his rejuvenation.

He'd had no such luck.

"You healed me with _magic._"

Merlin glanced over his shoulder at Arthur, who was watching him with arms crossed over his chest. He couldn't help but feel that he was walking into a trap with this line of questioning, but what choice did he have? He supposed that Arthur had a right to know why he wasn't looking like a bloody-headed hunchback anymore.

"I did, yes," he answered cautiously.

"You healed me _using_ magic," said Arthur pointedly, and Merlin groaned inwardly. There it was.

"Technically," he began, looking at the ground and trying to focus on his acorn hunt. "Technically, I used magic on the crystal. The _crystal_ used magic on you."

"Merlin!"

Merlin winced, wondering vaguely why he'd even _tried_ that excuse. It sounded pathetic even to him. "Okay, fine. Yes, I used magic on you. But it was to _heal_ you. I really didn't think that you'd mind!"

Arthur was unyielding. "What have I told you about using magic on me?"

Merlin sighed and pocketed the acorns that he'd gathered, faintly grateful that Arthur had been so distracted by his irritation that he wasn't paying attention to what Merlin was gathering for their next meal.

"'Only if I have your express approval, if it's an emergency and you don't have time to give approval, or if you're unconscious and unable to give approval,'" he recited dutifully.

Arthur had just raised his eyebrows and gestured for him to continue. Merlin rolled his eyes. Arthur was certainly clinging to his metaphorical crown that morning.

"'…and it doesn't count if you're unconscious because I knocked you unconscious just so that I can use magic on you.'"

"And _why_ is that?"

Merlin stood up straight and clasped his hands behind his back, hoping that the servant stance would appease Arthur's ego and get him to abandon this line of questioning. "Because I've knocked you out a bunch of times in the past and if I keep doing it, you're going to lose the ability to walk in a straight line?"

"Not that, Merlin!"

Merlin almost laughed at the fact that Arthur wasn't bothering to deny the potential effects of all of the blows to the head. Arthur did not look as though he would appreciate any laugh just then, however, so Merlin just gave up.

"Fine. 'I can't use magic on you without your knowledge because it's unfair and unkind and immoral.'"

Arthur nodded solemnly and waited for a moment. "You forgot 'arrogant.'"

Merlin groaned aloud. "It is _not_ arrogant!"

"Really? You making choices for me because you think you know what's best for me and not giving me any say in the matter _isn't_ arrogant?"

"You do that all the time!"

"I'm the king! I'm supposed to do that!"

Merlin bit his lip and swallowed his retort. This wasn't going to get them anywhere. Especially considering that, of all of their many arguments, this was one surprisingly lacking in triviality. "Let's not get into this again. It never ends well. Yes, I used magic on you without telling you. I'm sorry and I promise to never do it again."

Arthur snorted and walked away, and Merlin reflected that, just because he didn't think that Arthur would ever know him so well as he knew _him,_ it didn't mean that Arthur didn't have a fairly accurate take on Merlin's character.

"Okay, fine," said Merlin, conceding the point. "I promise to _try_ to never do it again."

Arthur had just dropped onto his log and taken up Merlin's flint, arranging the piles of tinder and dry firewood gathered the night before, trying to restart their fire. From the look on his face, Merlin had had the impression that Arthur did _not_ want any magical assistance in the chore.

So Merlin had gathered his acorns, taken his mortar and pestle and waterskin, and mixed up some acorn paste, garnished with a few of the bitter dried berries that were left of the food that they had smuggled from the castle kitchens. There was a _reason_ why these particular dried berries had not yet been eaten, but Merlin felt that it was a good idea to include something recognizable in the mush. Arthur didn't have to know what it was to eat it. At least it wasn't rat. Besides, they'd already eaten all of the _good_ food.

Now, as Merlin took occasional tastes of the magical woodland salad to reassure Arthur enough as to drive _him_ to eat it, he pondered how he was going to bring it up to Arthur. His latest lie that did not involve acorns and shriveled berries. He hoped _that_ Arthur would go back for seconds of acorn paste or, at the very least, find it so unappetizing that he would take his time with it. He needed time to plan out what he was going to say. He would lay it out for Arthur, step by step, peppered with the occasional apology, and finish it off by opening up his pack and providing Arthur with the hard evidence of Merlin's betrayal. His lie. His…arrogance.

Yes, he needed to think this through.

So he opened his mouth and said, "Hey, Arthur. Want to know why I fell off the dragon?"

Arthur just looked at him, unimpressed. "Merlin, if you're going to try to brainstorm reasons why you got us into this mess to attempt to distract me from the fact that I just pulled a _stem_ out of my teeth, you have another thing coming."

Merlin waved the accusation away. "I'm serious, Arthur."

"So am I. A _stem,_ Merlin. What the hell am I eating?"

"Acorn paste," said Merlin, very quickly. "I mean it. I know why I fell off the dragon."

"Sure you do. Acorn paste? _Acorn paste?"_

"And berries!"

Arthur just made a face and flicked something from his bowl at Merlin. It was hard and rough, so Merlin knew that it was either a berry or a chunk of acorn that had escaped his pestle massacre. "Well, go ahead and go hungry, if you'd rather!"

From the way that Arthur gazed down at the bowl, apparently more thrown by the revelation of its contents than he was sharing, Merlin suspected that Arthur _would_ rather.

"So," said Arthur, tossing his wooden dish down to the forest floor and picking up his waterskin. "Impress me with this story of how you fell from the dragon."

Merlin was beginning to get annoyed. He did not appreciate Arthur's lack of faith in his sincerity. Granted, it seemed as though Merlin had put Arthur through a hellish couple of days and that, now that Merlin was well again, Arthur had the freedom to pick at him guilt-free, but still. He was trying to help!

Instead of answering, Merlin just opened his pack and, making sure to cover his skin with the cloth of a spare neckerchief, withdrew a scroll that was barely still scroll-shaped, having been rolled and unrolled so many times that it looked like a rather halfheartedly curled piece of parchment. He tossed it at Arthur, who caught it one handed as he drank deeply. Merlin wasn't sure if he was insulted that Arthur seemed so determined to cleanse his palate of the breakfast or impressed that Arthur had managed to catch it.

Laying down his waterskin and swallowing, Arthur smoothed out the parchment and looked at it. He looked up at Merlin and shrugged. "What about it? I _have_ read this before, Merlin."

He threw it back at Merlin, who glared and batted it to the forest floor with his bowl, not daring to touch it barehanded. The acorn paste was so thick and grainy that it did not so much as move with the action. Merlin gave up on it and tossed his bowl down to join Arthur's. "Aren't you a tiny bit surprised that I've got it?"

Arthur just shrugged again. "I ordered you to leave that in Camelot for Guinevere. She may love the two of us in our various ways, but I think that it would help our cause somewhat if she had proof that we were summoned away on a suicide mission rather than off on a jaunt of some sort. But no, I'm not surprised. Annoyed, yes. Surprised? No. You only obeyed half of my orders back when you were my servant."

Merlin shook his head, distantly wondering what sort of "jaunts" Guinevere suspected them of running off to on such occasions. "You don't understand, Arthur. I _did_ leave a copy back in Camelot for Guinevere. I gave it to Gwaine. I told you that!"

Arthur shrugged for the third time, the carelessness for some reason angering Merlin. "I just figured that you were lying."

_That_ hurt Merlin more than he cared to admit. Arthur said it so _casually_, so nonchalantly, so without surprise or accusation that Merlin wanted to hide his face in shame. Was Arthur so used to the idea of Merlin as a liar for so many years that it wouldn't even surprise him anymore?

After a moment, Merlin cleared his throat. "No, I wasn't lying. I just made a copy for them. I wanted to keep this one with me. I don't know why, I just felt…compelled. Don't make that face, Arthur, I'm serious. There's more magic here than it seems, I'm sure of it."

Arthur shifted in his seat, looking more interested. "So you didn't want to leave something magical and sent from an enemy in the hands of Guinevere? It could cause them harm? Good thinking, Merlin."

Merlin bit his lip, feeling more ashamed than ever and wanting to lie about it. But he couldn't. He _had_ to not lie. Why was it so hard sometimes? "No, that's not why. I mean, it's _part_, but I only thought about that after I decided that I was going to bring it with me. I just…wanted it. I wanted it near me."

Arthur didn't seem to have heard much after Merlin's admission that he had _not_ left it for the safety of those in Camelot. "How would that even work? Guinevere knows your hand. She'd know that you wrote her copy. Why would she believe the story if it just looked like you'd made it up?"

"What? Oh, no. I didn't copy it by hand," Merlin answered. "I duplicated it. Using magic, obviously. The script is identical. All that's different in the parchment. They're the same."

Merlin waited for Arthur's reaction. His anger. His frustration at the lengths to which Merlin had gone to further his deception to those in Camelot _and_ to him. He waited, prepared to be yelled at and prepared to accept it.

"You can make identical copies with your magic?" asked Arthur slowly.

"Yes."

Arthur just looked at the ground for a moment, then met Merlin's gaze. To his shock, Arthur was half-grinning. "Why the hell haven't you told me that before? That would make my life so much easier! All the documents and letters that I have to send to all of my lords…this is going to be so convenient. If we survive this, my correspondences will go _so_ much faster."

Merlin just hung his head, unsure whether he wanted to laugh or throw something. Of course that was Arthur's first thought. Of _course._ Not that Merlin had lied _again_ and concealed something important _again._ Not that Merlin was using his magic to sneak around again. No, Arthur's first priority was simplifying his correspondences. Merlin suddenly wondered if it wasn't better that Arthur had caught him in the act of magic. If he'd just come out and _told_ him, Arthur probably would have started going on about how reassuring it was the Merlin wasn't as much an idiot as he always seemed. Arthur Pendragon, Merlin mused in a combination of affection and exasperation, instinctually seeking the best in every situation.

It was a good thing that he had Merlin to see the worst sometimes.

Finally, Merlin looked back up. "That's not the point, Arthur. The _point_ is that something compelled me to bring this damn summons with us and with me and _on_ me at all times. Coincidentally, something has been making me sick and delusional since we left. Seeing any connection there?"

Arthur stopped smiling and gasped loudly. "Merlin, the scroll is making you sick!"

Merlin rolled his eyes. "Very good, Arthur."

Arthur just shook his head, brushing aside the sarcasm. "But…how?"

Covering his hands with the sleeves of his jacket, Merlin picked up the parchment and began to look it over. "I'm not sure, exactly. It hasn't affected you, which tells me that it's not contagious or anything. It hasn't affected Aithusa, so I don't think that it's harmful to _all_ creatures of magic_._ But's it's affected me pretty seriously."

"I had noticed that."

"But it hasn't killed me."

"I had noticed that as well."

"I've been trying to figure it out," said Merlin. "Maybe it was designed to affect any sorcerer who came with you. It _does_ say that you're to come alone. But how would she know that you would even bring it along? I think that it might be…"

"What?" Arthur sounded so curious that Merlin half-smiled. It was like telling a suspenseful story to a particularly eager child.

"I think it might be designed to affect _you._ Or, more specifically, the person who opened the scroll the first time. After all, your manservant said that it was very specifically to be opened by _you._ Even Guinevere was not to break the seal, remember? But _I_ did it."

Arthur sat very still, and Merlin watched him carefully as he kept speaking. "I think it must have been the wax. The seal, remember? There was no sigil or anything, just that big glob of wax that kept it sealed. I remember thinking at the time that there was an awful lot of wax for one scroll. It must have been the wax. She must have enchanted it to hold sway over the opener, or cursed it or mixed it with some sort of potion."

Arthur shook his head, just a tiny bit. "I don't understand."

"It was designed around _you,_ Arthur," said Merlin, getting excited and standing up. He began to pace. "I think the breaking of the seal set in place an enchantment. Possibly to poison you, but I doubt it. What was the point of sending a summons if you were just going to be poisoned by the seal? But…remember how it says that you'll find your way? The path will 'be revealed to you?' You presumably would be going by horse…I think this would have guided you, whether you knew it or not. And it's not exactly a secret across the lands that you're the king of self-sacrifice. You wouldn't have brought anyone with you so that you could keep them safe. Because you're an _idiot,_ by the way."

Arthur rubbed his face with his hands, covering his eyes. "So what you're saying is that because _I_ made _you_ open the damn thing, we have no idea where we're going. Because it's obviously not working like that on you."

Merlin shook his head, knowing that Arthur couldn't see him but doing it anyway. "No, we'll find it. This is _good_, Arthur. Don't you see? She'll expect you to be going by _horse._ We've traveled farther in less than a week on dragon back than you'd be able to do in a month on horseback. She told us to go north, and we've been aimed in the direction and the enchantment has had enough influence to make adjustments on our course. I can _see_ that now."

Arthur looked up, his expression alarmed. "_You_ were influenced that much?"

Merlin did not like admitting it. "I think so, yes. She's…she's powerful, Arthur. Moreso than I rememb…more than I thought. And I didn't know…it didn't even occur to be that there could be anything strange about the wax or the scroll."

"Is that possible? Enchanted wax?"

Merlin shrugged. "Sure. I've done it. You've seen Gwen's magic candle."

Arthur looked like he was getting a headache. "This doesn't explain why you were getting sick."

Merlin found himself grinning. "I think that it was _me_ getting myself sick, Arthur. It's like how I healed myself after I hit the ground. I didn't know it, but…it's like what Gaius used to talk about, with medicine. He said that sometimes the cure that he used on most men doesn't work on a few of them and that the medicine would just make them sicker. Their bodies would reject the medicine, and that would usually make them even worse. I think that's what was happening to me. Her magic was…interfering with mine. With a normal sorcerer, I think it would have been deadly. But me…I'm powerful. More powerful than her. So I fought back, even if I didn't know it."

Arthur was beginning to look nervous again. "Merlin…"

Merlin laughed aloud. "Don't you see? My magic _rejected_ hers! That's _amazing,_ Arthur! I wish that I could tell Gaius…"

The king remained sober. "If it's so amazing, how come it nearly killed you?"

"_It_ didn't nearly kill me," said Merlin, brushing aside Arthur's question. "The _fall_ almost killed me. I expect that I would have been fine if I'd been on the ground. It just made me fall off of the dragon, that's all."

For the first time, Arthur began to become excited. "That's all? That's all! You were shaking and hallucinating and weak—weak_er_—and pale and—"

"Think of it this way, Arthur. It's like if you eat something that's gone bad. It makes you sick and you're miserable and your body is going crazy until you throw it all up. Then you're fine. That's me. I…vomited the enemy magic. And now I'm fine!"

Arthur just looked at him. "That's a beautiful metaphor you've got there, Merlin."

"Thank you. But Arthur, don't you realize? She doesn't expect us for ages, and she'll expect you alone. She thinks that she's pulling the strings, that she's in control of it all, that we don't know what she's doing to us. Can you imagine the arrogance? But it's _us_ now. We're not walking into her trap. We're _flying_ into it before she can set it to spring. We can get to her before she even suspects that we're more than a few leagues out of Camelot. She's been manipulating it all until this point. Now? Now, it's on our terms."

Merlin kept pacing. He was jazzed. Energetic. Arthur wasn't answering, but he didn't mind. He wanted to keep going.

"The ego of her…does she even know who I am? Who you are? The king of Camelot and _me._ She doesn't know what she's done. She doesn't know what's coming for her. I have fallen from a dragon and _lived._ I have created a healing crystal in the middle of the forest without being _conscious._ I have _rejected_ her magic without even trying. She's a priestess thrice my age even if she doesn't look it, she's been trained from birth, and I have been in _hiding_ for nearly all of my life and I have defeated her already. She doesn't know what she's done…she doesn't know that I'm coming for her. She doesn't know what that would even _mean_ for her. She thinks that it's just _you. _And we haven't even started yet...Do you know what this means, Arthur?"

Merlin stopped pacing and looked back at the log for Arthur. He was not there. Merlin scanned their little camp for his companion, needed to see that Arthur was keeping up. When Merlin finally found him, Arthur was standing over their fire that separated them, eyes wide and almost…unrecognizing.

"Do you know what this means, Arthur?"

Arthur just shook his head. He looked strangely unnerved, so Merlin strode toward him. He wanted to reassure the king. He wanted Arthur to understand.

Extinguishing the fire with a casual blink of his eyes, Merlin stood in the circle of ashes and put a comforting hand on Arthur's shoulder. Looking him in the eye, Merlin smiled and spoke.

"It means that we _won,_ Arthur."

Arthur just stared at him as though he had never seen Merlin before.

And the king took a step backward.

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**Sorry for the long delay, to anyone still reading! I've been both busy and unmotivated, and that is not a productive combination. Anyway, I would love some reviews! **


	13. Relativity I: Time

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine. **

Arthur had maintained, from the moment that real steel had been placed in his hand in place of the child's wooden weapon, that skill was _not_ the most important quality when it came to knighthood. Granted, he had thought this because he had discovered very quickly that his mastery of the wooden blade did not exactly translate entirely into mastery of a _real_ blade, but that wasn't his point. Even as he aged and began to defeat older and more experienced knights in the battles and tourneys, he knew that it wasn't skill alone. It was _confidence. _

Merlin had never believed him when he'd made such claims. Merlin tended to focus on the _tangibles_ when it came to Arthur's battles, whether they were with blunted competition blades or the legitimate weapons of combat. When a man was bigger than Arthur, when a man was faster than Arthur, when a man was surrounded by _his _men and Arthur had only _Merlin,_ when Arthur lacked armor, when Arthur lacked a _sword…_Merlin tended to assume the worst.

But Arthur had always walked headfirst and steadily into such fights. What was the point of wavering or doubting himself when there were lives and victories on the line? Even if all of the odds were against him and he _knew_ that he would probably lose—that he _should_ probably lose—what was the point of fighting as though the most likely conclusion was one foregone? No, absolute confidence was always of the utmost importance to Arthur and, while it may have seemed a rather foolhardy stance to others, Arthur felt that the fact that he was still somehow _alive_ was evidence in his favor. Confidence was a _good_ quality.

So Arthur supposed that he ought not be so unsettled by the confidence that Merlin had shown when he'd expressed his…certainty that he would defeat Morgana. Easily. It was…unnerving, and not least because Merlin had referred to her as "thrice" his age. Morgana had a great deal of magic, Arthur knew, and it was possible that her birth had been something of an unusual event, but if Uther was her father as much as he was Arthur's, there was no way that she was in her seventies, even if Merlin had stated that she didn't look her age. Unless Uther had fathered her shortly after his _own_ birth, Merlin had his math a little bit confused.

At first, Arthur had been afraid that Merlin was beginning to lose it again, even as he had relit their campfire and burnt the summons with the muttering of a few strange words for which Arthur had given up asking for translations. But Merlin still appeared so healthy and relatively _normal,_ even as they now flew on Aithusa's back once more toward whatever destination Merlin seemed to think that they would have no problem finding. And Arthur began to wonder…if Merlin wasn't expecting Morgana, who the hell _was_ he expecting?

Not for the first time, as he clung to Aithusa's back and tried not to suspect that the dragon was making it a deliberately bumpy ride, Arthur thought about simply _asking_. After all, one of the few things that he and Merlin absolutely agreed upon when it came to Merlin's years of deception was that good communication would have saved them both a great deal of trouble. Of course, the fact that they rarely approached the subject with one another betrayed the fact that they still were not the greatest of communicators, but still. He should just _ask._

Yet he couldn't. Arthur wasn't sure if it was because he didn't want to know who it could be that had so initially frightened Merlin or if it was because he hoped that it was _not_ his half-sister that they would be facing. They were going to have to…this would have to be her…he and Merlin would have to end it. Permanently.

That was another thing that he knew that they agreed upon, although neither had dared voice it. Granted, Arthur had been busy being distracted by Merlin's physical and mental breakdown, and Merlin had been busy doing the breaking down, but he had the feeling that, even if this had been a completely uneventful flight, they would not have discussed it. They had gone on so many quests over the years…but they had always felt like adventurers and explorers and men on missions of _honor_ and necessity. Now, Arthur just felt like they were assassins. It was not a good feeling. It was not...honorable.

Even if it was _Morgana._ She had done so much over the years to harm Camelot and her people that it was almost embarrassing that they had not tried to do this terrible thing already, but Arthur still felt _dirty_ when he thought about what he and Merlin intended. They were on a mission on which the only acceptable conclusion was the death of their enemy. She was just too powerful for them to allow to survive. They just _couldn't_.

Could they?

Arthur closed his eyes, feeling the wind rush over his face and chap his lips and threaten his grip on the dragon's back. He wished so much that he did not know that he and Morgana were not siblings. This would have been so much easier…he didn't have any family left…but maybe, just maybe, Merlin was right and it wasn't Morgana.

He shivered and considered for half a moment asking Aithusa to slow down for a bit, but he dismissed the thought almost immediately. Once Aithusa had forgiven Merlin for scaring him, he had shamelessly transferred all affection for Arthur right back to the sorcerer. He scowled at the memory. It was completely unfair. _Just_ because he had asked Merlin to summon a pair of wyverns so that they could ride _those_ beasts for a day or so instead of the dragon, Aithusa was now going out of his way to try to frighten Arthur. Even after two days. Who would have known that dragons were so good at holding grudges?

It was so unfair. Arthur _had_ conceded that Aithusa was much faster. He was just _concerned_ for himself and Merlin. After all, the fact that Merlin seemed healthy enough was not enough to banish the horrible memory of the _last_ time that Merlin had been on the back of a dragon. According to Merlin, wyverns weren't the friendliest of creatures, but if either of them were to fall off, it would have been a drop of a few feet. Rather than a _hundred._

It hadn't helped that Merlin had immediately sided with the dragon. Arthur was being _reasonable!_

"Merlin," he'd said, sitting idly on his log and watching as Merlin busied himself packing up their scattered belongings. He was all but yelling; Aithusa had been flapping furiously around above their heads, costing them their fire and any attempts at hair tidying. Merlin said that he was stretching his wings for a long day's flight, but Arthur figured that Aithusa was just trying to get some attention or hurry them up or something equally annoying. Stupid dragon.

"What, Arthur?"

Arthur had been vaguely offended that Merlin sounded exasperated before he'd even heard what Arthur had to say. Couldn't he at least _wait_ to grow judgmental and dismissive until he'd heard what he was dismissing?

"I have an idea!" said Arthur brightly. Merlin just rolled his eyes warily.

"What?"

"Why don't we walk today?" Arthur suggested.

Merlin stopped fiddling with the remnants of their campsite, and the wind from above them began to slow, confirming Arthur's suspicions that the young dragon was flying around so that he could eavesdrop without being too obvious.

"Arthur, no."

Arthur just smiling winningly, hoping for soften Merlin via friendliness. If it worked on Guinevere, why shouldn't it work on Merlin?

"Come on, Merlin! It's a nice day out, and I think that you and I are going to get out of shape by the time that we get to wherever we're going. You maybe be a super powerful sorcerer, but it's not going to help anyone if you get winded by climbing the first flight of stairs. A nice brisk _walk_ would do us loads of good today, I think."

Merlin snorted. "Nice try, Arthur."

Now that Arthur thought about it, that winning smile didn't work on Guinevere very often either. He would have to rehearse it when he got back to Camelot, although his smile rehearsals had gotten somewhat more difficult over the past year. Just because he had punched out a mirror or two in times of upset did _not,_ he felt, mean that his looking glasses should be confiscated every time that he looked particularly stressed.

But that wasn't the point.

"Give me one good reason why we shouldn't."

"I'll give you _three_ good reasons. One: we'll get a million times farther on dragon back than we would on foot. Two: this forest is getting more and more magical the farther that we go, so its probably full of manticores and griffins to attack us and wood-witches to enchant us from their hovels and unicorns for you to viciously kill for no reason whatsoever—"

"Come on! I did that _one_ time—"

"—and all manner of magical beasts that'll slow us down. And _three_: just because _you're_ still scared of dragons does not mean that we should slow down our travel time."

Arthur had stood up and placed his hands on his hips at _that._ "I am _not_ still afraid of dragons! I'm afraid that _you_ are going to fall off the dragon and smash yourself into a billion pieces—"

"I only did that once!"

"—and _that_ will definitely slow us down."

Merlin turned to face Arthur, looking annoyed and prepared to toss another retort at the king. However, he seemed to recognize the concern that mingled with the frustration on Arthur's face, for his expression softened. "Arthur, I'll be fine. We burnt the summons and I don't feel sick or compelled to do anything evil or anything. So just…climb on Aithusa and we'll get going. You _know_ that speed is the most important factor here."

Arthur had shaken his head, stubborn. "Fine. How about a compromise: you summon us some wyverns and we ride _those_. They're fast enough to run away from the monsters and the unicorns that I am _not_ going to kill and they'll get us where we're going quickly enough, I'd say."

Arthur had had just enough time to register the way in which Merlin looked him in the eye and winced and wonder _why_ before there was a massive _thump_ and the earth trembled beneath their feet as Aithusa landed clumsily in the nearby clearing and just _stared_ at Arthur. Glaring. The _dragon_ was _glaring _at him. There was smoke coming out of his nostrils, but he did not make a sound. Arthur looked at Merlin, puzzled and unnerved. Merlin just shook his head, half apologetically and half chastising.

"Come on, Arthur," he whispered so loudly that Arthur thought that Merlin ought to practice his whispering skills while Arthur rehearsed his smiling. "I _told_ you about Aithusa's feelings about wyverns. And you just _had_ to bring them up as replacement dragons. Honestly, Arthur, have you ever ridden on the back of a sulky dragon?"

Arthur glared. "Have _you_ ever ridden on the back of a sulky dragon?"

Merlin had just shrugged and began fiddling around their campsite once more. "Well, no. But that's only because I know better than to try to suggest that they're not as useful as _wyverns._ I mean, _really_, Arthur! Aithusa has been twitchy enough lately already, haven't you noticed?"

Arthur _had_ noticed. Aithusa had been getting jumpier and jumpier as they flew farther over the forest that grew darker by the league. He'd assumed that it had been because the dragon sensed more about Merlin's illness than Arthur did and was nervous out of concern, but the jumpiness persisted, even with Merlin's recovery. As they had restarted their journey, Arthur felt just as he did on one occasion, when he'd had to force his panicking stallion—through sharp words and nudges and eventually a switch snatched by a non-flaming tree to snap at the poor creature's side—to ride through a patch of forest being consumed by flames. It was not a reassuring comparison.

As far as Arthur was concerned, that was just another reason for them to stay aground for the next day or two. Besides, Aithusa really _was_ glaring at him. And he'd thought that they had broken new ground with each other during Merlin's illness…

However, between Aithusa's glares and Merlin's attempts to guilt Arthur into feeling bad for his remarks about the superiority of wyverns vs. dragons, the magical duo had prevailed, and now Arthur was on the back of a cranky dragon thinking about confidence and trying not to focus on what Aithusa was probably thinking about doing to him. Although there _was_ the chance that the dragon's turbulence that day—as well as the day before, when they'd first taken to flight again—was more to do with Aithusa's twitchiness than any dragony desire to scare the hair off of Arthur's scalp. Or both. Dragons seemed peculiarly capable of multitasking.

Still. Pondering the possible imminence of his death via fall from the back of a spiteful dragon was somewhat more palatable than thinking about Merlin and the _certainty_ that he'd displayed when he'd figured out the cause of his illness and proclaimed that they were sure to defeat the sorceress waiting for them. He didn't like thinking about Merlin like that or remembering how Merlin had looked when he'd said it. It was an expression that he'd seen before, although never on Merlin.

_Morgana_ had always been confident.

It wasn't that he thought—even for an instant or even a little bit—that Merlin would turn on him or was in league with Morgana or was engaging in another step of an unnecessarily elaborate ploy for revenge for how Arthur had exiled him. No, he did not doubt Merlin's loyalty. But he did not like it when he saw yet another aspect of Merlin's magical side that paralleled Morgana's. That resolve. Ruthlessness. Dark determination.

For the thousandth time, Arthur thought of how Uther's ban on magic had done more harm than _just_ the slaughter of all of the innocents. Because of Uther's ban on magic, there were people like Morgana and Merlin out there, powerful—too powerful—who had had to live with the knowledge that their king would kill them in an instant qualities beyond their control. Who had had to stifle themselves and suffer for it. How could Arthur blame them for holding grudges, even if they were subconscious? How could he blame them for any lingering bitterness that would accompany the need to try to harness their powers for the sake of the _safety_ of themselves and others in secret? And how could he ignore the fact that being forced to grow up and live and _hide_ in such a way was certain to instill no small amount of darkness in a person?

_That_, he thought, was why he had backed away from Merlin. Arthur was dreading the encounter with Morgana—or whoever it was—even as he sought it. He just wanted to get there and then have it be over and skip the whole middle part that was going to haunt him until the day that he died. But Merlin…that gleam in his eye…Merlin seemed to be most looking forward to the middle. To the fight. To the battle in which he would be able, for the first time, to unleash his powers upon an enemy without the need the hide himself from Arthur or anyone else.

He was so confident_…._was this what Merlin had always felt like, when Arthur would be going to fight a man twice his size and speed and stamina and Merlin had advised against it, citing the likelihood that it would not end well? If it was, Arthur thought, it was distinctly unfair. Even if he went hand to hand against an opponent who had never before picked up a sword, that person stood the _chance _of a lucky blow. If Arthur was distracted or struck by an inconvenient bout of mercy or dropped his shield…it was _possible_ that he'd lose. But this was just so _unbalanced…_it felt unfair. Any man could train and build muscle and grow skilled with a blade to defeat an opponent. But skinny little Merlin having all the odds in his own favor…

Merlin was just so damn _confident._ It wasn't as though Arthur wanted him to be weaker. This wasn't exactly an encounter from which he was hoping to emerge the _loser._ If he lost, there was unlikely to be any _emerging_ at all. But if only things were a bit more balanced…Arthur sighed and chanced lifting one of his hands up off of Aithusa's back, wanting to brush his hair back from his face and move a bit to restore circulation to his body.

Unfortunately, it was a rather ill-timed chance.

He didn't even notice that anything was wrong. He had been so focused on maintaining his grip with his attached hand, and the spin was so swift that Arthur didn't even realize that he was upside down until he heard Merlin shout.

Then, Arthur noticed.

Aithusa was rolling in the air, twisting as though there was some terrible itch somewhere on his body that he couldn't reach and that would surely drive him mad without some sort of relief. Arthur's body went stiff and he absurdly reached for his scabbard as he usually did when his life was threatened.

Battle instincts took over, and time slowed.

His head clearing, he began to evaluate the situation as best he could. He realized that the only reason that he had not plummeted to the ground below was because Aithusa had been spinning with too much speed for them to drop. He was plastered to the creature's back, helpless to do anything but hold on and hope that, when Aithusa calmed enough to stop rolling, he would do it when he was facing upward.

Merlin was shouting again, but Arthur could not understand the words. He was bellowing in that bizarre dragontongue that only only dragons and their lords seemed to understand. Tears streaming down his cheeks from the cold air blowing directly into his face, Arthur saw Merlin moving with no small amount of difficulty up to sit atop Aithusa's head. Arthur could see Merlin only in profile, clothes whipping around his bony frame and hair wild about his head and flush in his cheeks as he tried to steady himself atop the dragon's skull. Arthur couldn't hear anything anymore, but Merlin's lips were moving. His eyes were wide and scared, but he looked as though he was trying to remain very calm. Arthur assumed that Merlin was trying to settle the poor dragon before he crashed into the trees below or dropped his passengers, one of whom certainly lacked the magic to survive it.

It did not seem to be working as intended.

Arthur was so intent on watching Merlin trying to save them that he did not notice that Aithusa's rolls were growing less dizzyingly frantic-although more erratic-_slower-_until he saw Merlin's unsecured pack begin to fall off of the dragon's back. Fall _down._

Instinctively, Arthur's hand shot out to catch it, knowing in the back of his mind that it probably didn't make a damn bit of difference whether or not he tried to hold onto Aithusa anymore. Upside down was upside down, and it wasn't like dragons came with handles on their backs. If he was going to fall to his death, he might as well take Merlin's pack with him.

Arthur felt himself begin to lose contact with the pebbly skin beneath him, the muscles still twisting even as the dragon struggled belly-up through the air. For no reason beyond the fact that he was a _warrior_ and he wanted to die with a sword in his hand, he withdrew Excalibur and remembered the day he'd pulled it from the stone and imagined how much more he could have done and thought that Merlin would probably survive again because he seemed nigh on _unkillable_ and he could probably let Guinevere know what had happened to her husband.

He began to fall.

Strangely calm, he noticed that they weren't _that_ high up. They were certainly high enough that he would be reduced to a pink and red splatter upon landing, but they were much lower than when Merlin had fallen. That was good, he thought. Merlin would almost certainly live, the miserable little sorcerer. It felt like he was cheating. But he was glad that Merlin would make it. One of them ought to.

He fell.

Arthur wondered how long it would take for him to hit. Seconds, probably. Ten, maybe. It couldn't have been more than half a minute since Aithusa had begun to roll. When Merlin had fallen, it had seemed to take an instant. If that. Maybe it felt longer when _you_ were the one falling. He wished that he'd asked Merlin. Of course, it wouldn't matter very much to him in a few moments, he knew, but still. He would have liked to know.

He closed his eyes, not wanting to see. He'd seen the dragon and he'd spied the ground below, but he didn't want to see the descent. He didn't have to see it to know where he was going and that there was nothing that he could do to stop it. He didn't want to see.

This wasn't how he was meant to die. It should have been in battle or in illness or for his people or when he was very old in his own bed with the people that he loved by his side. This wasn't how it was meant to happen.

His body lost all contact with the skin of the dragon who had carried them so far—so very far, that good old dragon—but he didn't see it. He didn't want to see. He just wished that he had enough time to thank Aithusa for carrying them so far as he did. Good old dragon.

He felt himself feeling nothing. Nothing but air.

He heard Merlin shout again. He thought that he heard his name, but he didn't open his eyes. The air was rushing deafeningly in his ears, and whatever Merlin was saying was lost in the wind, unintelligible to Arthur, who wanted to smile. It was just like Merlin to be worried about _him_ when he was surely going to be making the same drop. Good old Merlin. This was so stupid, though. Merlin had already fallen. Now Aithusa was falling, and Arthur along with him. Was there a quota for falling bodies that they needed to fulfill before they could do this thing?

If there was, he hoped that the quota was three.

He hoped…

He wondered if it would hurt. When things happened quickly enough, he knew, they didn't hurt. The ground would do him in right away. It wouldn't hurt, surely.

That was nice.

In one hand, he clutched Merlin's pack, the ratty old bag that he had grabbed and hastened his own fall. He hoped that there was something soft and durable and valuable in there, something that would survive. In his other hand, he held Excalibur tightly. He was a warrior.

And warriors fell all the time.

He was a warrior.

A _warrior. _

He was not meant to die like this, but if he was going to die, he was damn well going to make it a death worth dying for.

He almost smiled at his logic.

Then, he opened his eyes.

He saw. It was closer now. It was taking so long...but there it was. Closer.

He was glad that he'd opened his eyes. The forest was beautiful, in its own way. And he'd never expected to see it from this particular angle.

Beauty in the little things...

Too late, he remembered something that he needed to say. To Merlin, to Guinevere, to his people, to Morgana. Arthur opened his mouth to try to speak, wondering if he had time to—

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**Thank you for reading! Reviews are always very appreciated. **

**And motivating!**


	14. Relativity II: Words

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine. **

"Oof."

What else was there to say?

He _had_ given a groan that was part disbelief, part annoyance, and part pain, but he didn't think that groans really counted as phrases. Nor did grunts, as far as he could figure, although he did not think that there were any master linguists anywhere in the five kingdoms who could really make an official ruling on the matter. Although he had never been entirely sure _what_ Geoffrey of Monmouth did with all of his time.

So he said, "Oof."

What else was there to say?

Actually, as he thought about it, breathless and blind, there were a _lot_ of other things that he could be saying. Something about magic and how it was completely useless if a person took into consideration how often certain people seemed to be falling off of magical flying beasts. Or maybe a rant peppered with more than a few curses of the non-magical variety, although he wasn't entirely sure whether he wanted to aim this particular rant at his companion or their ride or fate or what seemed to be his inherent inability to having anything resembling _luck_ on his side. Perhaps he ought to be saying whatever it was that had seemed so important a few seconds earlier, but he could not for the life of him remember what it was. Or maybe he should just give a yell. A wordless yell that lasted for as long as was possible before he died with the crunch and splat that were certain to be in his very immediate future.

Yes, as it turned out, there were _lots_ of things that he could be saying.

Still, he could not be too ashamed of himself for neglecting to voice any of them. After all, when a man hits a solid surface and bangs his chin with such force that his teeth chatter painfully as his jaw snaps shut and his eyes blink him into blindness, when he has the wind knocked out of him so utterly that it takes him a moment to regain his most basic of bearings, Arthur supposed that it was understandable that he wasn't at his most articulate.

So he said, "Oof."

His "oof" properly exhaled, Arthur pushed himself up, intending to stand and breathe and maybe say some of the things that he ought to be saying before he figured out what had happened and became distracted by issues far more pressing than his soreness of jaw. He assumed that he'd passed out and Merlin had done some fancy magic to land them safely on the ground, even if it _did_ involve a crash and bang or two. He'd take being uncomfortable over being dead.

Then, he opened his eyes.

His plans for standing were abandoned immediately, and he lowered himself down onto his elbows instinctively. Unfortunately, however, facing downward at the ground was not the most calming of moves that he could have made.

It wasn't that he couldn't _see_ the ground or anything. It was there, all mottled green and brown and more shadowy that Arthur remembered ever seeing in the woods around his castle. But he had spent so much time in so many forests over the years that they were usually almost comforting in their familiarity.

Unfortunately, his familiarity tended only to be comforting when he was _on_ the ground. Staring down at it, suspended in place from fifty feet above, he found himself significantly _less_ than comforted.

Not looking up, irrationally thinking that if he looked away from the ground below him that he would end up plummeting down to it, he opened his mouth.

"Mer_lin!"_ he bellowed, putting as much volume to his voice as he could manage, reasonably assuming that the majority of the sound would be lost in the wind. Less than reasonably, he really wanted to yell at Merlin just then.

It was not until he had to cover his ears, falling off of his elbows and "oofing" back to the invisible surface beneath his body, that he realized that there was no wind. His shout was echoing around him, bouncing off of the shield that was not there over and over again until he wondered whether Merlin had done this on purpose as payback for all of the times that he'd yelled at him as king to manservant. Was he really _that _loud? No wonder his servants were so afraid of him when he was mad.

But that wasn't the point. If there was no wind and yet he was still suspended above the ground…Merlin must have given him some sort of…magical protective flying bubble. Yes. Was that a real thing? It sounded like a real thing. He only hoped that Merlin had had enough time to cast magical protective flying bubbles over both of them. Knowing Merlin, he'd probably tried to save Arthur before it had occurred to him that he too was plummeting to the ground and, not being a cat, perhaps had a rather low limit to the number of times that he could come back to life.

Arthur glanced below him and to the sides of the magical protective flying bubble that was surely a real thing. There was no sign of Merlin. _Or_ Aithusa. He supposed that he might not be able to see Merlin if he'd fallen to the ground, but Aithusa was a giant white _dragon._ He would probably stand out. But maybe he hadn't fallen. Maybe neither of them had. After all, they were a _dragon _and, if he took Merlin at his word, an unprecedented sorcerer. They were probably just floating somehow out of his eyeline. So he looked up.

If he hadn't already been on his hands and knees, Arthur suspected that he would have yet again fallen flat on his face.

There were no magical floating bubbles somewhere in the sky above him. He did not have to squint into the sunlight to try to discern Aithusa from a cloud or Merlin from a…bird. No, they were both rather…close.

With a sense of calm that almost unnerved him, Arthur thought to himself that it was a good thing that he had not tried to raise himself to his full height. It was bad enough that he kept banging and bruising himself every time that he fell back down to the invisible barrier that was keeping him aloft and alive; if he had tried to stand up straight, he would have banged his head on the very bumpy and very hard skin that covered the back of the dragon.

It all began to fall into place as he began to remember. They'd been flying and then Aithusa had begun to go crazy, apparently under the impression that Arthur had not yet had enough of magical creatures deciding to fall to pieces whilst flying hundreds of feet in the air. Aithusa had flipped and shuddered and then _rolled_ in the air. At first, he'd been rolling so quickly that the momentum had kept anything from falling.

Then, Aithusa slowed and stopped rolling.

As he was upside down.

So Arthur had begun to slip from the dragon's back and was contemplating his death and then had smashed into something that did _not_ kill him because it was _not_ a fall of fifty feet. Everything had just seemed to take so long that it felt like it had to have been more than just a few seconds…

In a way, he supposed, he _was_ enclosed in a magical protective bubble. He just wasn't alone.

The bubble was more of a _dome,_ he could see, just like the dome that had protected the unconscious Merlin when the storm from hell had raged around them. He was as safe as Merlin had been then. As safe as he could possibly be, he figured, when it came to flying half a hundred feet in the air whilst about four feet away from the back of a crazed and upside down dragon. Merlin had seen to that.

Merlin…

Arthur pushed himself up as high as he could manage without bashing himself on the head, brushing aside the debris that surrounded him on his invisible floor. Their belongings, he realized. What they had wedged and tied onto Aithusa's back. Merlin had managed to save those as well, it seemed, save for his own pack that Arthur had so _heroically_ caught. There were pots and casks and blankets and bags, but Arthur shoved them all away. Where was Merlin? The dome wasn't very big…surely Arthur ought to have seen Merlin by then…

If Merlin had gone and fallen off a dragon _again,_ Arthur was going to kill him.

But Merlin was not in the dome. Arthur crawled forward anyway, searching. In the back of his mind, he knew damn well that it was useless. Merlin may have been skinny, but it seemed highly unlikely that he'd managed to twist himself up to fit inside of a cauldron. Annoyed, Arthur batted aside the pot that had wedged itself into the spot where the invisible dome met the dragon's back.

And then Arthur realized three things in immediate succession.

First, that the cauldron had been blocking his sight of the front of the dragon.

Second, that there was a hand pointing backward in the direction of the dome, wavering in streams of air that Arthur could neither feel nor hear.

Third, that the hand belonged to Merlin.

But he didn't really look like Merlin. His black hair was whipping in every direction as he crouched dangerously over Aithusa's head, his skin ruddy and tears running down his cheeks as he stared unblinkingly into the rushing air. From what he could see of Merlin's profile, there was so much grim focus and determination on his face that he doubted that Merlin even knew that he was weeping. With the hand that was not pointing in Arthur's direction, he was clutching at Aithusa's neck, his arm straining to maintain his grip. His mouth was moving, wide and furious, shouting into Aithusa's ear.

Bizarrely, Arthur's first thought was that Merlin was an _idiot_ to only be hanging on to the careening upside down dragon with one hand when he lacked any protective magical bubbles to shield him. Then he realized, and he felt immediately guilty. He knew why Merlin's hand was extended backward. It didn't make him any less of an idiot for doing it, but Arthur understood. Merlin was maintaining the dome that protected the king, even as he tried to cling to Aithusa.

Arthur was so touched and annoyed by the idea that it almost didn't occur to him that Merlin's _clinging-to-Aithusa_ plan might just interfere with his _protecting-Arthur_ plan. Almost. But powerful sorcerer or not, he was still _Merlin._ He was still human. He could still make mistakes. And he had kind of a lot to focus on just then.

Arthur thought that he probably ought to try to help, but what was there for him to do? He had no magic. He had no experience with this sort of thing. All that he had was a _sword_, unsheathed instinctually and now held uselessly at his side. He shook his head. Whining about what he _couldn't _do wasn't going to help anyone. He might not have been able to light fires with his mind or boss dragons around or bring himself back to life every time that he fell from the sky, but he could help himself. In the state that they were in, he reasoned, helping himself was the same as helping Merlin. If Merlin didn't have to focus so much on keeping _Arthur_ from falling through the invisible shield, maybe he could focus more effectively on calming Aithusa.

He squared his shoulders, taking a deep breath and squeezing Excalibur's hilt for luck. He wasn't going to wait for everything to go wrong. What if Aithusa decided to go into another barrel roll and Merlin's shield failed? Precarious as his position was, Merlin at least had a neck to grip onto. All that Arthur had was a broad expanse of pebbly skin and most of their belongings bouncing around him. If Merlin's dome failed, Arthur would be plummeting to the ground before Arthur would have enough time to cry out. But what could he do about that?

From the very edge of his bubble, Arthur looked up and around Aithusa's trunk. If he leant against the invisible walls with his whole body, he found that he could see Aithusa's legs. Was it possible...

Arthur half-grinned and half-groaned. He was right. Merlin, outside of the dome, had his hair and clothes and _body_ being whipped around in the wind. Aithusa's wings, unflagging, flopped about weakly in the air stream. Inside of Arthur's dome, however, everything was still.

And Aithusa's legs were still. Too still. If it meant what Arthur thought that it meant...well, if it meant what Arthur thought that it meant, he wasn't going to kill himself by what he was going to try.

Arthur stood up straight, wobbling only slightly as he found his footing on the very smooth and very slippery and very invisible surface beneath his feet, and inched his way to the middle of Aithusa's side. It wasn't so high, he thought. There there _were_ bumps that would give him something to grab onto. But was it worth it? What if he was wrong and the dome _was_ just a dome on Aithusa's back, rather than a sphere that covered all of Aithusa's midsection? What if he just ended up hurling himself into the sky? What if this was an incredibly stupid plan that would just make his death more embarrassing than was at all necessary?

Arthur shrugged and sheathed Excalibur. What the hell, he thought. He might as well do _something. _

He took as high a jump as he could manage without any traction beneath his boots and grabbed hold of the dragon's white skin, boosting himself up. Holding his breath, his feet scrabbled for something to grab onto, and he wormed himself up onto the dragon's belly, congratulating himself on the many hours of training that had him in good enough shape to accomplish such an unlikely task as this.

Accomplish...

Accomplish!

He _did_ it, and Arthur gave a whoop of joy. It echoed back around him the same as had his curses, but he didn't care. He wasn't upside down. Granted, the _dragon_ was upside down, but _he_ wasn't. He wasn't being held aloft solely by some magical shield. He wasn't being battered with pots and pans every time that Aithusa shifted. His feet were on solid...well, solid_ skin._ But he could_ see_ it.

He grinned, exhilarated by the fact that he was still alive and had done _this,_ at least, for himself. That he could jump and stand and climb and grab and decide and get things _done_ without having to use magic for it. He was King Arthur of bloody _Camelot,_ and he had damn well done this for himself.

"Take _that,_ magic!" he shouted.

There was an instant, as his exuberant yell echoed back at him from all angles, in which it occurred to him that this particular plan of climbing to linger on the dragon's _under_belly was somewhat more shortsighted than he'd thought, before Aithusa went and did something for which Arthur would never truly forgive him.

He rolled over.

Arthur wasn't sure what was the worst part...how he was once again spread-eagled on his back on an invisible surface...that he was _again_ being smacked by bouncing cookware...that the dragon finally was right side up and he happened to be on the _bottom_ of it...that his climb to victory of which he had so rejoiced was rendered ridiculous almost immediately after it had been completed...

As he shielded his head from being bonked with the cauldron, he decided that it didn't really matter what the worst part was. It was all pretty damn infuriating. After swearing a few more times, he forced himself to his feet. So what if he was knocked over? He would just do it over again. So what if the smooth skin of Aithusa's belly would make it almost impossible to get a grip? So what if it seemed that the dragon intended to flip in whatever direction Arthur _wasn't_ for the rest of the day? So what if the futility of it all was exhausting? He would just do it again, over and over and over until it finally mattered or he died. Either way, it would be in trying.

Arthur forced himself to his feet-giving the cauldron a good kick, just for the sake of kicking something-and braced himself against the invisible smoothness. Looking up, he could just barely see Merlin atop Aithusa's head. After a moment, he saw Merlin give a glance over his shoulder, almost absently, then whip himself around so furiously that it looked as though he'd whip himself right off into the sky from his perch. He was scanning the dragon's back with, as Arthur was pleased to note, a definite expression of increasing panic. _Good_, he thought. _Let_ the stupid sorcerer worry about him.

Then something seemed to occur to Merlin, and he furrowed his brow. Leaning a bit, he peered down Aithusa's side to his belly.

And then _Merlin_ did something for which Arthur would never forgive him.

He laughed.

It _was_ a brief laugh and, _yes,_ it probably _was_ slightly amusing to see Arthur's state, and what did it matter if Merlin's laugh sounded more hysterical than it did entertained? Merlin _laughed. _

Arthur had never truly been clear on what a "dollop head" was, exactly, but he was pretty sure that Merlin was a _big_ one.

He glared at Merlin, faintly appalled that even _now,_ he could find a way to prioritize scowling at Merlin over how dire their situation was. Then, he saw the open palm that Merlin had had pointing behind him, maintaining the bubble, begin to move. Merlin had gone back to leaning over Aithusa's head, and he was not watching as he aimed the hand at Arthur. The fingers closed into a tight fist, and Arthur had just enough time to wonder what the hell he was doing when he saw it _yank_ sideways. Arthur found himself colliding with the side of the dome and-no. No! _He_ was not colliding with the side of the dome. The side was colliding with _him._ Even as he was pelted by debris for the umpteenth time, he realized what was happening and, to his later shame, his first thought had not been of gratitude or wonder or even curiosity. He'd just thought that sometimes, Merlin could be the most _incorrigible_ show-off.

Still. At least he was right side up again. And on Aithusa's _back_, rather than his belly. It was nice, in a sort of horrible and confusing way. All in all, the situation seemed like it was improving.

Improvement aside, Arthur scrambled for a handhold. Just because he seemed to be protected from falling to his death by the dome and was now on the proper side of the dragon did not mean that he needed to careen sideways beneath his protection every time that Merlin decided to switch directions. He threw a distinctly ungracious glare in Merlin's direction and, as though he had sensed it, Merlin dropped the hand that had been pointed at Arthur and placed it aside the other on Aithusa's head.

Arthur had just enough time to wonder why on _earth_ Merlin was going to give up on sustaining the dome _now_ when he realized that he still did not feel any wind, nor was he being tugged off of the dragon. Relief washed over him. Everything was going to be okay, he told himself. Merlin was maintaining the dome without having to actually _aim_ at Arthur. That meant, he felt, that they were safer now. Merlin was calmer. Able to focus. It was going to be okay.

Assuming they were able to land. Despite the still rather bleak circumstances, Arthur was beginning to grow cautiously optimistic. They were still falling far faster than on Aithusa's usual descents, but at least now it was at an angle than in a plunge. _Veering_ rather than plummeting. He would take what he could get, Arthur thought. As though encouraged by Arthur's rare display of confidence in his flying abilities, Aithusa spread out his massive white wings and caught the air. With a jolt from the abrupt loss of momentum, they were in flight once more

Somehow, Aithusa managed to straighten his wings, and he aimed downward toward the ground, more or less in the direction of a clearing that seemed rather small for the body of the young dragon, but neither he nor Arthur seemed inclined to be particularly picky just then. Aithsua landed with surprising smoothness, albeit with an extra dozen or so steps than he usually required as he tried to slow his momentum. Still, he came to a wobbly stop and, while he was still breathing rather heavily and rather _smokily,_ his body trembling beneath Arthur's similarly shaking legs, he bent his front knee as he always did, allowing Merlin a smooth and painless dismount. Arthur waited as calmly as he could, trying to ignore his eagerness to have his feet on solid ground. The dragon was allowing the Dragonlord some grace in his dismount. Dignity. He could wait his turn for his own dignified slide off.

Then, Aithusa leant sharply to the side and unceremoniously tumbled Arthur off of his back, where he landed heavily onto the ground.

Arthur rolled his eyes, lying on his back in the shadow of the huge creature. He wasn't sure whether he should be irritated by the way in which he had been dumped into the dirt or impressed that Aithusa had managed to remember, despite _everything,_ that he had a grudge to bear against Arthur.

Merlin, who normally would have been laughing at Aithusa's most recent strike in the ongoing battle between the dragon and Arthur, was walking toward Aithusa's head. Placing his hands on the snout, he heard Merlin begin to whisper soothingly to the dragon. After a few seconds, Arthur could see the trembling beginning to decrease and Aithusa's midsection—more or less directly above Arthur where he lay—began to move less erratically as his breathing grew steady. The dragon's knees began to buckle, and Arthur rolled out of the way before he met an untimely and fairly humiliated death by being squashed by a sick dragon.

Aithusa sat down heavily, the ground beneath Arthur shaking with the impact as his bulk hit. He began speaking in what Arthur assumed was meant to be a whisper. Aithusa, however, happened to be a _dragon,_ so Arthur could hear his side of the "whispered" conversation as clearly as if a man had been yelling. He could hear everything.

Not that it did him any good. Aithusa was speaking dragontongue. Shoving himself up off of the ground, Arthur wished that he understood. It _sounded_ like Aithusa was just repeating the same thing over and over again, quickly and twitchily. Curious and more than a little bit annoyed by his lack of comprehension of what the hell was going on _now,_ Arthur tried to read Merlin's lips from a distance. Unfortunately, Arthur found that Merlin was either also speaking Aithusa's language—in a sign of respect, maybe, or just because the dragon was so shaken that he'd forgotten the common tongue of most men—or that Arthur was just very bad at lip reading. He supposed that both options were fairly possible.

They looked like they were _arguing_ now. Merlin's voice still had the soothing tone to it, but his expression of concern grew tinged with irritation. Aithusa just kept repeating the same sequence of growled syllables over and over again. After a few minutes of this, in which Aithusa's growls began to grow louder and more insistent, Merlin stepped forward and _roared_ right back at him. Despite himself, Arthur jumped, cursing silently. He _hated_ it when Merlin yelled in the dragontongue. He didn't sound like Merlin and, as he had no idea whatever it was that Merlin was yelling, it was just unnerving. Plus, whenever Merlin roared at a dragon, the dragon tended to roar back. And that was just _loud. _Arthur took a deep breath to prepare for the bellow.

When Aithusa answered, however, Arthur couldn't help but cover his ears, feeling like a child. He hadn't even known that the dragon was capable of making such noise. He supposed that he ought to be lucky that it was only the single roar rather than repeating that same sequence _again._ He glanced at Merlin, hopeful. Maybe this was progress. It may have been an _annoyed_ response, but it was a new response. It had to be progress.

Merlin did not look pleased with the progress. Arthur watched as Merlin took several steps backward, eyes wide. He looked almost baffled, as though whatever Aithusa had said managed to both explain everything and yet still make no sense whatsoever. A chill ran down Arthur's back. Dragons told the truth to Merlin, he knew. They _had_ to. It was one of the many peculiarities of the "kinship" between dragons and their lords. Whatever Aithusa had said to Merlin was true.

Merlin said something back to Aithusa, speaking slowly and looking as though he was hoping to be contradicted. He walked backward and, after he finished speaking, he gestured for Aithusa to approach him where he now stood, nearly ten feet away.

The dragon shook his head.

Merlin glared and pointed at the ground in front of him, looking for all the world like an angry parent trying to discipline a misbehaving child.

The dragon just shook his head again, moving it back it forth more furiously than ever. Arthur was not yet particularly skilled at reading dragon expressions, but if he had to guess, he would have said that Aithusa looked _embarrassed_. From the emphatic way that he shook his head, however, he got the feeling that Aithusa was not so embarrassed that he would acquiesce to Merlin's request.

Which, of course, it _was._ Whatever Merlin had said, Arthur told himself, it _must_ have been a request. Merlin was a Dragonlord…what could possibly drive a dragon to try to refuse an order from a Dragonlord? The _last _Dragonlord?

Merlin looked frustrated now. He strode forward and grabbed Aithusa around his head where his skull met his neck, and he _tugged. _Arthur almost rolled his eyes. Merlin was trying to drag the dragon like Arthur would have tried to drag a hound, and with considerably less success. He assumed that Merlin's goal was to emphasize how much he wanted Aithusa to move forward. After all, if _Merlin_ was trying to use his muscles to move the dragon, Arthur would have to start wondering if the sorcerer was losing his mind again.

Still, the dragon did not budge. Finally, Merlin stepped back once more and barked a single syllable at Aithsua, looking strangely determined and frightened as he pointed again at the ground in front of him. From the sharpness of his voice and sternness of his glare, Arthur knew what he was saying. Merlin was giving an _order._ He was ordering the dragon to move forward.

Aithusa did not move, just quivered more than ever where he sat and looked at Merlin with such beseechingly sad eyes that Arthur immediately forgave him for dumping him onto the forest floor.

A look of fear washed over Merlin's face, overcoming his features. Then, he shook his head back and forth until he was able to appear authoritative once more. _Merlin the Dragonlord,_ thought Arthur. Merlin spoke again, sounding tired and insistent and hopeful, all at once. It took a moment for Arthur to realize that Merlin's question had been in the common tongue.

"_Why?"_

Aithusa just lowered his head and stared at the ground, exhaling smoke. Arthur wondered if that was how dragons wept. He looked so pathetic that Merlin's expression softened at once. Merlin walked forward and leant against the dragon's head, closing his eyes. Arthur saw that Merlin was beginning to breathe in sync with the dragon, and it only took a moment for Aithusa to stop exhaling smoke.

Finally, Aithusa said something very quickly in the dragontongue. Whatever it was, it was the same phrase that he'd been repeating over and over again after they'd landed, although now much more calmly. Merlin just nodded and patted Aithusa's snout, looking defeated and unhappy.

It was not a look that Arthur appreciated. Merlin was not allowed to feel _defeated_ and mope around until he told Arthur what was going on. Then he could mope all that he wanted.

"Merlin, what the hell was that?"

Merlin looked up, meeting Arthur's gaze for the first time in what felt like ages. Even when he'd laughed at his king's position, Merlin hadn't really been _looking_ at him. He'd just been looking at one of the pieces of a larger problem, Arthur thought sadly, remembered for a moment the bright-eyed naiveté of the young man who'd first strolled into Camelot and tried to out-mace the crown prince. Now...Merlin's eyes were hollow, but his face twitched into neutrality with such effortlessness that Arthur shivered.

"What?"

Arthur just pointed rapidly from Aithusa to Merlin, over and over again until Merlin raised his hands, palms out in surrender. "Aithusa was just telling me that he wouldn't…Aithusa doesn't want to keep going."

Arthur just gaped. Did Merlin think that Arthur had forgotten everything he'd been told about the relationship between dragons and their lords? Did he think that Arthur did not realize how magical dragons were? Or was he just trying to make excuses for Aithusa?

"Merlin!"

"What?"

Arthur took a deep breath to keep himself from yelling. "Why did he start going crazy up there?" he asked, gesturing up at the sky, as though Merlin required visual aids to understand the meat of Arthur's question. "Why on earth is he refusing to do as you order? I didn't even think that he _could_ refuse things that you order! Don't look at me like that. I may not speak your dragon language, but I'm the king. _Your_ former master. I _know_ what it sounds like to give an order to someone who won't do his job properly."

Merlin bit his lip and looked away.

"Don't blame him, Arthur. It's not his fault, and there are exceptions to every rule…" Merlin trailed off, as though even _he_ did not believe what he was trying to rationalize. "He's just…he's still young, and I don't even know if Kilgarrah could do this. And he _tried_, Arthur. He nearly killed himself in the process, but he _tried_. He's just...he's too magical to—look at it this way. Dragons are _inherently_ magical creatures. Not like me—I can turn it off and do things the normal way. But dragons are _all_ magic all the time. They can't help it. So they're sort of…immune to a lot of kinds of magic. Even mine. But it goes both ways. There are some things that they _can't_ do, even under the orders of a Dragonlord. They'll kill themselves in the attempt if they push it. And _here,_ in these woods...look, dragons are so magical that it seems…dragons can be very perceptive, Arthur. Receptive. I know that this doesn't make very much sense..." Merlin trailed off.

Arthur didn't like how uncertain Merlin sounded. How…apologetic.

"Receptive to _what?"_

"To certain types of magic."

Arthur scowled. He hated when Merlin did this. He had a habit of answering certain of Arthur's questions as vaguely as was physically possible without _actually_ refusing to give the answer. It was like he _still_ did not believe that Arthur could handle the whole truth. It was not his favorite of Merlin's longstanding habits.

"Come on, Merlin. What was he saying? He said the same thing, over and over again."

Merlin turned to face Arthur, although he kept a hand protectively on Aithusa's head. Just like how Guinevere's mother used to do when her daughter was sick. Just like Guinevere did to Arthur when he was sick. Just like Arthur had done to Merlin when _he_ was sick. "Does it matter, Arthur?"

"Yes!"

Merlin sighed. "'There is darkness in this place.'"

Arthur gritted his teeth. Merlin was doing it _again!_

"If you think that you're going to get out of giving me a straight answer by making mildly threatening and strangely cryptic claims—"

"That's what he said, Arthur!"

"Who?"

Merlin groaned. "Oh, for heaven's sake, Arthur!"

"_What?"_

"You asked me what Aithusa said!"

"I _do_ remember that, Merlin. It was all of four and a half seconds ago."

"I'm _telling_ you!"

Arthur was beginning to get a headache. "What?"

"What he said!"

"I _know_ that. What was it?"

"'There is darkness in this place.'"

"Merlin—"

"'There is darkness in this place,' _he said,_" Merlin clarified, looking grouchy.

"Oh," said Arthur.

"Yeah."

"Darkness in this place," Arthur echoed, his voice low.

"Yeah." Merlin sounded equally unenthusiastic.

"What does he mean, Merlin?" asked Arthur. When it did not look as though he was planning on answering, Arthur repeated himself. "What did that _mean,_ Merlin?"

Merlin just sighed and walked away from the dragon. He began to pick up some of the scattering belongings that had tumbled from Aithusa when he'd landed so heavily and gone out of his way to fling Arthur down onto the ground.

"It means that we're walking."

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**Thank you for reading! Sorry for the crazy length-it got to the point where I considered splitting this into two chapters so that it wouldn't be so ridiculous. :)**

**Anyway, I always appreciate reviews a LOT. :) I'm coming up on some of the chapters that I'm really excited for, so hopefully I won't slack off too much! **


	15. Relativity III: Places

**Disclaimer: _Merlin_ is not mine.**

There were many things about Arthur that Merlin had always envied. Not the power—Merlin had served Arthur long enough to know with absolute certainty that he had no desire whatsoever to be a king.

There was his fighting prowess, of course. It was hard not to be impressed by Arthur's skill in battle. But Merlin had given up on bothering to envy _that_ particular trait many years ago. He had battle skills of his own and he had self-awareness enough to know that his physique was not quite as ideally suited to hand-to-hand combat as was Arthur's.

Then there was Arthur's ability to get out of bed in the morning, facing the decisions that he would have to make and dealing with the fallout of the decisions already made. It wasn't as though Merlin was unfamiliar with making life-or-death choices for the greater good on a regular basis; his just didn't happen to be up for the scrutiny of every man in the five kingdoms.

There was Guinevere. Not that Merlin desired _her_ specifically, but he saw Arthur's and Gwen's relationship, and it was hard not to want that for himself. Yet he had given up on that as well. Arthur's destiny included a queen. Nowhere was it written that the warlock would have a marriage of his own. He had to focus on his destiny, and so what if that meant that he would have no wife? So what if that meant that the Dragonlords would die out with him, should he father no sons? So what if he would never have a true family, bound by blood? So what…

There were the _perks_ of being king, having his sheets changed and his breakfast made and his rooms cleaned and his bathwater fetched and his clothes laundered. But Merlin had done all of these things _for_ Arthur for such a long time that he didn't think that he could ever have a servant of his own without spoiling him rotten. Or at least helping him. He and Arthur may have become friends, but that didn't mean that being the king's manservant was particularly enjoyable.

No, Merlin did not envy the most obvious privileges that Arthur enjoyed. It was what made Arthur..._Arthur. _

They were parts of Arthur's character that Merlin knew that he would never be able to emulate. Trust, despite how often he'd been betrayed. There were some, he knew, that considered this a weakness. He himself had advised against it and despaired of Arthur's blindness to the treachery of those around him. Morgana, even after she'd returned changed from a year in the company of a sorceress; Agravaine, even after so much evidence pointed to his traitorous nature; Morgause, when they'd met, because she had spared his life and spoke of his mother; even _Merlin_, despite his mysterious absences and flimsier of lies and uncanny ability to survive in situations that should have undoubtedly led to his death. But Arthur _trusted_ in his fellow man. Merlin just suspected.

And Arthur could forgive. His father could treat him abominably whenever his life was not in danger, and Arthur loved him. Guinevere had been willingly romanced by another man—or rather, his shade—on the eve of their wedding, and now they were married. Merlin had lied and betrayed and broken the laws of Camelot more times than could be counted, and he was more often than not now at the king's right hand. Arthur was dreading what they were going to have to do when they reached their destination. He didn't want her killed, even after all that she had done to him. Of course, Arthur _did_ think that it was his half-sister and, as he was seriously lacking in family, Merlin could understand. And Arthur _would_ do it. He was a man of duty. He would do it. But he'd hate himself for it.

Merlin wouldn't. He'd lost that ability many years ago, from the instant that he'd poured poison into his water flask and handed it to Morgana. Shades of gray didn't help anyone when it came to situations like this, he thought bitterly. Decisiveness did. No, Merlin wouldn't hate himself for what he intended to do to whoever would be waiting for them. He would sleep at night just fine. But still, as he slept, he would still dream of the look on Morgana's face as she'd begun to choke and realized what her friend had done, the horror and accusation and pleading in her eyes, how she had fallen to the ground and tried to push him away, how she had let him put his arms around her because she didn't want to die alone…Morgana had never been the same after he had poisoned her.

Neither had Merlin.

He supposed that he envied _that_ of Arthur as well. The innocence that went with ignorance…he regretted many of his lies and denials to Arthur over the years. But he did not regret keeping Arthur from witnessing the death of Morgana as she had been. But he could envy it.

But not the most.

Arthur's ability to compartmentalize…Merlin envied that most of all. It wasn't just that Arthur could focus. Merlin would have died long ago if he lacked the ability to focus. But Merlin was riddled with self-doubt and other possibilities and _distraction_ in a way that Arthur wasn't. Once Arthur made a choice, the choice was _made._ Whether it was what he wanted for breakfast or how he was going to sacrifice himself _again_ or why he didn't want help from anyone or even something so simple as what sort of mood he would be in…except on rare occasions, he made his decisions and they stayed made.

Of course, Arthur wasn't exactly the most objective man in the five kingdoms. His willingness to trust and forgive and love unconditionally had crippled him on more than one occasion. Yet Arthur's ability to compartmentalize—an ability that had increased exponentially as he developed into a true king rather than a prince trying to fit into his father's crown—was something that Merlin envied. If he had only been able to separate his feelings from necessities, so much harm might have been prevented from his disastrous system of trial-and-error. He'd made so many mistakes when his judgment was clouded by emotions…and so many of them prophecy-related.

Merlin scowled and kicked at a stone, wishing that he had done the smart thing and decided to think about _happy_ topics when he and Arthur had set out that morning. Thinking about prophecies _never_ put him in a good mood. And why should it? Prophecies were the _worst._ And so…sticky. Did these things have to happen, or could he prevent them? Did he have to try to change them for them to come true? What was the point of even _knowing_ them if they were just inevitable? And _why_ did the dragon always have to share them? _Just let Uther die,_ Kilgarrah would say. _Just let Morgana die. Just let this person die and that person die and just let this horrible thing happen because something else that I won't tell you about is going to happen that's _much_ more horrible if you don't._

Yes, prophecies were right up there with crystals on Merlin's list of magical complications that were to be avoided at all costs. Although that healing crystal _had_ been pretty handy. Arthur hadn't agreed after Merlin had taken a few…liberties…with it, but he seemed to have dismissed it from his mind. Merlin wasn't sure if it was admirable or unhealthy that he could dismiss and compartmentalize so easily, but he had to admit that it _was_ convenient.

Unfortunately, however, that morning as they tramped through the forest and made random turns, Arthur's ability to compartmentalize was just annoying. Why couldn't he focus on the _seriousness_ of their mission instead of...complaining?

Sometimes, Merlin really wished that he had promised not to use magic on Arthur outside of emergencies. A handy silencing spell would do them _both_ worlds of good just then, he felt.

Stupid Arthur.

"—and if you recall _earlier_, when I wanted to stop so that I could shake out my boot, it was just the most unreasonable idea ever. _No,_ you said, _we have to keep going while we have daylight. _It's not like it would have taken me all of five seconds or anything. But _no._ You were the _warlock,_ you said, and I had to keep following you or I'd get lost. We are already lost! Besides, the stone in my boot was all in my imagination, you insisted. Well, let me tell you something, _Merlin._ When we stop for the night and I take off my boot and blood pours out of it, I am going to throw something at your head. Not you're knees, of course, because we have to bloody _walk._ You're a Dragonlord, but we can't have any dragons, and you won't even _try_ my wyvern idea. You're a sorcerer, but you can't make us a magical energy amplifying potion or something, you know, _useful._ You're a Horselord, but you can't summon us a few horses—"

Merlin sighed and kept walking, not willing to dignify Arthur's rant with turning around. He _had_ to interrupt at this point, however. "There's no such thing as a Horselord, Arthur."

He heard Arthur snort. "Then explain to me how you can talk to horses."

"Anyone can talk to a horse."

"Don't play coy with me."

Merlin almost choked, although he could not have said whether it because of amusement or indignation. Clearing his throat, he answered.

"I am not a Horselord."

"Of course not," grumbled Arthur, and Merlin heard him inhale a gigantic breath, which only meant one thing. Arthur was starting again. "Of _course_ not. That would be _far_ too convenient. Much like if we had a _path. _Excuse me for not being too enthusiastic about our current course, oh mighty sorcerer, but it looks to _me_ like we're just crashing aimlessly through the woods. But we have to do it _magically._ Oh, look, a bush. I have an idea—let's go _around_ it. But _no,_ we have to go _through_ the damn bush. Or, hey, a river! Let's not try to find some rocks to step on or a branch to use as a bridge or anything _sensible_ like that. No, let's just _ford_ the damn thing, you say. That was not fording, Merlin. That was us walking through a river and getting soaked to our bones and pebbles in our boots and then walking through the _shady_ woods for the rest of the day so that we don't get properly dry. If I get sick, Merlin, it is going to be entirely your fault."

Merlin just rolled his eyes. "Go on then. Get sick. _I'm_ the one with the epic magical battle coming up."

There was a snap, quickly followed by a small crash, and Merlin was vindictively pleased that Arthur went and tripped himself. That was what he got for focusing all of his energy on complaining.

Unfortunately, the tumble did not seem to be enough to distract him. "Yeah, if we ever get there. And don't start whining about your 'epic battle.' Two days ago, you were going on about how you were going to crush all of your enemies into dust so dusty that it will barely resemble dust."

Despite himself, Merlin smiled. "I certainly never said _that."_

Arthur did _not_ sound like he was smiling. "I'm paraphrasing, Merlin!"

Merlin began to walk faster, and he heard Arthur stomp through the underbrush faster. He didn't know why Arthur was insisting on _stomping._ He'd just keep tripping over branches. But then, of course, he wouldn't be able to express his anger via type of walk. "And _I_ am just following my instincts!"

Arthur snorted again. "And your instincts would have failed you if we _hadn't_ gotten ourselves soaked from the waist down?"

Merlin picked up his pace even more. He wasn't sure why he was provoking Arthur. He was already in a bad mood at having to follow Merlin. "I don't want to be put off the trail!"

Still, he followed.

From the closeness of Arthur's voice, he was speeding up faster than Merlin was. "'Put off the trail?' You're a sorcerer, not a bloodhound!"

"You just don't know how it works," said Merlin.

"_You_ don't know how it works!"

Merlin rolled his eyes, considering. Then he stopped very suddenly and braced himself one-handed on a tree. Arthur immediately plowed into him. Merlin fell hard against his tree, but Arthur lost his balance and tripped again.

"Son of a…Merlin!"

"What?" Merlin asked, feigning confusion. He turned around and pulled Arthur to his feet.

"Was that _really_ necessary?" asked Arthur, more exasperated than angry.

"Sure it was. Besides, I _sort of_ know how it works."

"Liar!"

"Magic isn't all _knowing,_ Arthur. It's also _feeling."_

"You made that up."

"I did not!"

"You did so."

"Yeah, because you're so great with 'feelings,'" retorted Merlin. "Besides, why do you think that I can do spells without speaking? When I make an incantation, I say words. When I want to move stuff with my mind or slow time or, for a completely random example, throw kings who won't stop complaining about a little _hike_ against a tree, I don't have to say anything. I could do those before I'd so much as _seen_ a magic book. Although I didn't have many opportunities for king-throwing when I lived in Ealdor."

"You can _slow time?"_

Merlin just sighed and kept walking, taking an unnecessary veer into a nearby pricker bush. He flinched as his legs were pierced by the tiny needles but, as he heard Arthur swearing behind him, he decided that it was more than than worth it. He was Merlin's closest friend, but when he was cranky and tired and confused, King Arthur tended to revert back to the Prince Arthur that Merlin had met when he had first come to Camelot.

Still. Maybe this time would be an exception and Arthur would shut up.

"It feels like you're _slowing_ time now_,_ actually, now that I think about it."

Merlin groaned aloud. "Would you stop complaining? I thought that you hated flying."

"It was _fast,_ at least."

"Look on the bright side. If I fall, at least it won't be from a dragon."

Then, very suddenly and before Arthur could go on another rant about how unreasonable of Merlin it had been to fall from the dragon, Merlin felt himself trip. He had just enough time to think that he had tempted fate by joking about falling before he handed hard on the ground, scraping his palms on some rocks as he tried to catch himself. That was strange. He'd fallen on hard rock. A moment ago, they'd been treading on soft soil, littered with pine needles. But there were no trees now either, he saw, in front of them. How had neither of them seen this coming up on them? And beneath him…

It was scattered with a thin layer of dirt, yes, but this was _rock._ He pushed himself up and sat back, his knees already beginning to ache from the stone. Looking to either side of him, he bit his lip. The rock stretched out to his right and left, very slightly curved for as far as he could see in either direction, unbroken and constant. It almost looked as though it was part of an arc of a very large circle. He looked around. On the other side of the stone, there were large slabs of rock, leaning against one another and scattered about on either side of a wide and empty…lane.

Merlin inhaled deeply as he realized. "Arthur—"

"That's what you get," said Arthur, not unkindly, from behind him. He stepped over the stone arc upon which Merlin had fallen and extended a hand, pulling Merlin to his feet. "You spend the day tripping me all over the forest of mysteries, I'd say it's fair that you take a tumble or two."

He laughed, but Merlin just shook his head. "Arthur…"

"What?" Arthur's voice was lighter than it had been all day. Merlin wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Or whether he should be so insulted that Arthur was cheered up by Merlin falling down.

"Arthur, I think we're there," said Merlin, looking at the king.

Arthur just looked puzzled, and Merlin sighed. He sometimes wondered if Arthur did this on purpose, just to vex him. "Where?"

"_Here,"_ answered Merlin meaningfully, hoping that Arthur would understand and not just make fun of him for being inarticulate.

"Where we're going?" asked Arthur, suddenly serious.

"Yes."

Arthur went very still. Merlin understood. It was very disconcerting to go from complaining about walking through the woods to reaching the destination to which they'd been summoned. "What makes you say that?"

"Look around, Arthur," said Merlin. "Tell me what you see."

Arthur looked, and Merlin watched as he began to put it all together.

Merlin hadn't tripped over a random rock. He'd tripped over a _wall. _Old and crumbling and fallen, but it was the foundation of a wall. From the state of it, it had to have been toppled hundreds of years previous. He wasn't sure what exactly could have managed to knock down a wall as large and thick as this had clearly once been, but it must have been something powerful.

Yes, Merlin was sure that they were where they were meant to be.

Beyond the wall that wasn't there, the random formations of stone began to take form in front of his mind as he looked at them. They were _buildings._ Shops or taverns or inns or maybe even _houses._ Roofs long gone and walls largely knocked to pieces, but the shapes were still there. The foundations. The indentations of vegetation long crushed. And there were so many of them…this had been a town. A large one.

Merlin stood still and watched as Arthur absorbed what he was seeing. He knew that Arthur wouldn't be much good until he understood. After a few moments, Arthur's expression cleared and his eyes were alert as he met Merlin's.

"This was a town, Arthur," began Merlin.

Arthur just shook his head. "This was more than a town, Merlin. Look at the size of it. This must have been a _city."_

A what?

"A what?"

Arthur smiled slightly. "City. That's what they used to call large towns, my tutors always told me. I remember arguing with them about it—well, I argued with them about a lot. But I always said that since Camelot was the biggest town that I'd ever seen, then _Camelot_ must be a city. But they always told me that, a long time ago, there were towns that were three, four times larger than Camelot. I never believed, really, but now…"

"Yeah."

Arthur bent down and put a hand on the stone remnants of the wall. "Merlin, this wall…this city must have been one huge citadel."

He was right, Merlin saw. A wall this size and strength—despite the fact that it was actually _fallen—_could hardly have been decorative. It would have been a massive undertaking to construct. Whoever these people were, they were either very afraid of something or very proactive about protection.

"But don't you see, Merlin? That means that we're missing something," said Arthur, sounding excited. Merlin could relate. This was something for them to _do._ It wasn't wandering aimlessly or flying tediously or building campfire after campfire. It was _doing_ something.

But Merlin couldn't see what Arthur meant. Missing something…from the state of it, the city was missing a _lot_ of things. "What?"

Arthur actually laughed. "Merlin, what does _our_ citadel protect?"

Merlin inhaled sharply and raised his eyes toward what must have been the center of the city, as though he somehow hadn't noticed something that ought to have been there. Arthur was right.

From the look on his face, Arthur had interpreted Merlin's gasp correctly. "Yeah."

Without saying anything, Merlin stepped over the wall that was no longer a wall, and together he and Arthur began to wander down the grass road that was no longer a road. Neither spoke.

As they walked, pausing now and then to look at a formation of rocks that still resembled the building that had once been there, there was a sort of heavy hush around them. It felt like anything that they said would have been muffled by the very air on this side of the wall. Besides, Merlin knew without having to ask that Arthur was checking for the same thing that he was.

Skeletons.

But there were none.

There was nothing. So they just kept walking. Merlin was beginning to get edgy. Nervous. He murmured a word and Arthur turned around in time to see the tiny flame ignite in Merlin's hand. He shrugged and turned around. Merlin just held the fire for a moment, enjoying the warmth of the flames and the comfort of controlling them. Then he extinguished it.

A minute later, he reignited it, able to do it wordlessly through the repetition.

And then extinguished it.

And again and again.

He couldn't explain it. He was just fidgety. Some people tapped their toes, he rationalized. Some whistled. Others bit their fingernails. Arthur hit dummies with swords.

Merlin used magic.

They kept walking until the rubble began to thin out until the space in front of them was filled with nothing but the sprouts of grass that were struggling to grow between the cobblestones that seemed to be everywhere beneath their feet. It was all so uniform and even—there was not so much as a _hill_ anywhere in this dead city—that neither he nor Arthur noticed the gigantic _hole_ in the ground until he almost fell into it.

Fortunately, Arthur's arm shot out to yank Merlin back before he strolled himself right into a pit. Once they were both steady on solid ground, they leaned forward simultaneously.

Then, they looked to their sides.

A huge ditch, deep and very dark, ran in a huge circle that appeared concentric with the wall, surrounding a blankly unremarkable expanse of rock and dirt and grass.

"A moat," said Arthur.

"Yes," answered Merlin.

Arthur nodded and bent down. Picking up a stone, he tossed it into the waterless moat. They heard the clatter almost immediately. But there was something strange about the sound that Merlin couldn't place. It...rattled.

"It's not stone," said Merlin.

"Something at the bottom, at least."

Merlin did not like the sound of that. Still, he felt a strange need to get to the other side of this mysterious moat. A warning bell went off in the back of his head. The last time that he'd felt a strange need like this, he'd ended up falling off of a dragon. But this was different. Arthur seemed to feel it too.

"I'll look for a bridge," said Merlin quietly.

"I'll try and climb," answered Arthur, just as quietly.

Merlin set off immediately, not wanting to see Arthur leap down into the darkness. He knew that it was not deep. After all, no matter what it was that was waiting for Arthur in the darkness, it had not taken the stone very long to make contact with the bottom. It couldn't have been more than ten or twelve feet. Arthur could do ten or twelve feet. But Merlin did not want to see the king swallowed up by the shadows. With a final glance back, he saw Arthur throw his pack across the moat, clearly not wanting to be burdened by the ungainly weight as he climbed. Arthur began pacing back and forth along the edge, staring down into the moat. Picking his place.

Once Arthur was out of sight, Merlin began to jog. It wasn't long before he saw in the distance something extending from one side of the moat to the other. Excited despite his many misgivings, Merlin ran toward it.

It had plainly once been a bridge. It looked like a _drawbridge_, of all things, but made of stone. Besides, why would it be a drawbridge? There was nothing to draw it on the other side.

There were chunks of the bridge missing, although whether from time or whatever had taken this city, Merlin could not have said. Looking closely, he thought that it would support him if he was quick enough. If it had lasted this long, he figured, it could survive him making a dash across it. He didn't weigh _that_ much.

Merlin took a deep breath and a single step out onto the white rock of the bridge, making his move before he talked himself out of it and tried to do something stupid like _jump _the whole way.

It did not collapse. Staring at the surface beneath him, he tried not to pay any attention to the holes through which he could see the darkness of the moat. As quickly as he could, he picked his way across the bridge, stepping more gingerly than he'd imagined himself capable. He half expected the whole thing to collapse as soon as he got to the center. Over the past week, he'd found that falling was becoming something of a habit with him.

But he made it. When his feet touched the grass and rocks on the other side of the moat, he took half a dozen steps, still staring downward, before turning back to look at the bridge, half in triumph and half to make sure that it had held. He'd have to cross back over eventually, and he did not think that he would be quite so willing to do so by leaping into the moat as had Arthur.

Almost unbelievably, the bridge was fine. It did not seem any more crumbled, and there were no echoes upward to suggest that a deluge of pebbles had fallen down into the moat. Strange…

Then, Merlin turned around.

As it turned out, it was a very good thing that he had moved a few feet away from the edge of the moat. Had he not, he was sure that he'd have toppled backwards into it.

For there, looming suddenly and most unnaturally in front of him, was a castle. It was huge, made of the same white stone that had comprised the bridge and the wall that had once surrounded the city. It looked more or less intact, which made him wonder distantly what on earth it could have been that destroyed the city. There were no scorch marks from an inferno or pock marks in the wall to indicate a trebuchet assault. There were towers, so high and perfect that Merlin could not see the top of them. There were turrets, so strong and solid that Merlin doubted if there was a trebuchet in existence that could have so much as scuffed away a few chinks. There were windows, so many windows…how many rooms were there? It was in a state of ruin, yes, from time and disuse. But it was intact, perfectly intact. And it was just…there.

And _huge._

A shiver ran through Merlin. This was impossible. The castle was magically concealed. It had to be. Guinevere always told them that they made each other more idiotic when in the same room together, but there was no way that he and Arthur just hadn't _seen _the damn thing. But the castle was so _big…_he couldn't imagine how much power it would have taken to _cast_ a spell to have concealed it, let alone _maintain_ it. He'd had no idea…

He shuddered and tried not to ask himself the question that had jumped into his mind. He did not want to know if it was true, did not want to test the theory…he did not want to know if he would not have been able to do it.

Suddenly, Merlin did not want to be standing there, alone and staring up at the castle that had not been there, only moments before. He didn't feel like anyone should be there alone. It was magical in this place. Too magical. He felt goosebumps rising on his skin, and the hairs on his arms stood up.

He took off running. If _he_ felt that he was not safe alone, _Arthur_ certainly wasn't.

He ran alongside the moat, searching for Arthur or, at least, for the place where he'd left Arthur. But surely Arthur would be out by now. The moat hadn't sounded very deep, and if it was made of the same bricks as everywhere else, Arthur would have found handholds to climb out.

Yet he did not find Arthur. He found Arthur's pack untouched, still where the king had thrown it. Merlin's heart sank. Something had to be wrong. Had there been some sort of trap at the bottom of the moat that had gotten to Arthur when Merlin had not been there to watch his back? Some sort of creature that grew hungry and enraged when pelted by rocks from above? Or had Arthur made it to the other side and gone wandering through the castle ruin alone?

Knowing that it was foolish, Merlin opened his mouth, reflecting that if whoever had summoned them did not already know that they were there, they certainly would soon enough.

"Arthur!" he shouted, his voice bouncing around him in the emptiness. "Arthur! King Arthur Pendragon! Of Camelot!"

"How many Arthurs do you think there _are_ around here?" a voice called up from the darkness of the moat, and Merlin almost jumped out of his boots.

"Arthur?"

"Yes, Merlin."

Merlin allowed himself a brief smile of relief. Yet he could not feel too particularly reassured. There was something in Arthur's voice…a flatness…something wasn't right. Merlin hoped it was just that Arthur needed a hand up from the bottom of the moat and was embarrassed to have to ask.

It did not feel like a particularly likely hope.

"You alright down there, Arthur?" he asked, wincing at how high-pitched his voice had grown.

"Yes."

"…Good."

"So you made it," said Arthur, down in the shadows. Merlin shivered. Arthur's disembodied voice was unnerving.

"I did, yes. And, uh…guess what?"

"What?"

Merlin wasn't sure how to say what he had to say. "Arthur…"

"_What?" _Arthur sounded annoyed. Stressed.

"Arthur, I found the castle," said Merlin, very quickly.

"Great," said Arthur, his voice echoing eerily up from the darkness. "I found the villagers."

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**It's all beginning now…**

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**Thank you for reading! **

**Reviews are always very appreciated! **


	16. Relativity IV: Men

**Disclaimer: _Merlin_ is not mine.**

When he was a boy, his mother had always said that he had too much imagination, although she had never really discouraged the particular trait. Frightened of his abilities and what it would mean if anyone found out, she'd kept him sheltered to the extent that he grew to assume that his was the normal childhood of every little boy in Ealdor. He hadn't truly had friends until he was a teenager and capable of controlling himself. Even then, his mother had had difficulties letting him out of her sight for very long.

He supposed that other sons might have grown to resent their mothers for keeping them from living a real life amongst peers during their formative years, but Merlin never did. His mother loved him, and if she was just about the only person in his life, what was so wrong with that? He grew up loved and protected, and he figured that he was luckier than most in that regard. Besides, he thought, the relative isolation of his childhood probably helped him to deal with the loneliness of his lies in Camelot. Unfortunately, that sounded somewhat pathetic when said aloud, as Merlin found out to his dismay. When he'd tried to thank his mother, it had come out rather heartlessly. In hindsight, he thought that he should have preplanned how he was going to phrase it when he thanked his mother for isolating him because it prepared him for having to live a lonely life when she sent him away from his home.

But she understood because she loved him. He'd had his mother and his health and the happiness of a boy who didn't know any other life. And he had his imagination, and he felt that he had turned out better than often did the sort of young boys who had grown up surrounded by an endless supply of peers.

Arthur, for example.

When they'd first met, at least.

But Arthur had changed-for the better, in Merlin's opinion-and Merlin had changed as well, although he preferred not trying to wonder whether or not he had been a better person when he'd embodied nothing more than naive peasantry. One thing that had not changed, however, was his imagination.

It came in handy.

Sometimes.

So when Arthur had called up from the darkness of the moat that he had found the villagers that had been missing from their dead city, Merlin's mind had immediately conjured up a rather wonderful but unfortunately rather unlikely picture of a system of tunnels in which they were all living, happy and peaceful and healthy, if rather pale. They had each other for comfort, and perhaps they all kept moles for pets. Or maybe moles were the staple meat of their diet. He hadn't decided until he was forced to dismiss the theory.

Of course, it was also entirely possible that Arthur had just discovered something that he had never seen before and was unable to identify but happened to be labeled as 'the villagers.'

Then he considered the possibility that the moats were actually a hiding place for all of the citizens, to whence they hurried whenever an intruder-or, in this case, a pair of intruders-entered their city uninvited. They had heard Merlin and Arthur approaching and hastened to hide in the trenches. They just happened to be a people who preferred living in roofless ruins than in actual houses.

It then occurred to him that they were probably all dead.

He was glad that he had not shared any of his scenarios with Arthur. Not only were they ridiculous to the point of idiocy, they were also incredibly insensitive if the moat was in fact full of dead bodies.

"Arthur?" he called. "Still there?"

"No, Merlin, there's a system of tunnels built by gigantic moles that I've escaped through."

Merlin snorted. Gaius used to say that great minds thought alike. Apparently, so did the ridiculous ones.

"Hang on. I'm coming down," said Merlin.

"Here," called Arthur's voice from about twelve feet to the right. Merlin looked and saw a hand reach as high up out of the darkness as it could manage and a _thump_ as Arthur pounded on the wall. There was a strange rattling sound as Arthur landed from his jump. "Come down right here."

Merlin scowled. "I can climb down myself, Arthur!"

"I know that,_ Merlin,_ I just don't want you to…land on something."

Merlin grimaced, wondering morbidly if it was…_squishy_ down there. He hoped that Arthur just meant that he'd found some graves, rocks arranged over mounds or stones bearing names. Something unpleasant but bearable. Arthur sounded shaken, but Merlin chose to disregard that. He'd probably just been surprised to have jumped down atop a cairn or two. Who wouldn't be? Besides, if there was anything _squishy_ down there, he was fairly certain that Arthur would sound far more alarmed. Or have climbed out. Or told Merlin to stay out.

Merlin wondered if he ought to be more unnerved by Arthur's declaration of his discovery of the villagers. Although he _had_ seen plenty of dead people in his life. Whether when he assisted Gaius in his physician's duties or was sending friends in burning boats out into lakes or killing people himself, he wasn't so bothered by corpses anymore.

Also, a giant scary abandoned castle had popped out of nowhere in front of him. It was fairly distracting.

Merlin shook his head and walked over to where Arthur had instructed him to hop down. Placing one hand on the ledge, he slid himself gently into the darkness of the moat. Even so, he landed hard and fell into a crouching position, only _just_ avoiding falling onto his face.

As he raised his eyes up from the dirty brick beneath his feet, he was very glad that he hadn't.

There were bones everywhere, yellow and cracked and pale in the dimness of the bottom of the moat. Merlin tried to stand very still as his eyes adjusted. This did not seem like an ideal place for falling to the ground. He was _surrounded._

Despite his efforts to remain steady, he felt himself wavering and had to stick out a hand to brace himself on the wall, wishing that he could look away. It didn't even seem like a moat anymore. It was a…crypt.

Some of the skulls had webs of tiny cracks spreading over their surfaces, etching outward from holes. Merlin breathed deeply, refusing to shut his eyes, not wanting to put a face to any of them. Some of the bones had clearly broken when they had been tossed into this pit, brittle and sharp and random. Others...others had occurred before the person had died. That much was obvious. There were so many blows to the head…and there were skulls of all sizes. There were groups of large skulls, all piled together in a gruesome heap, looking as though they had once been arranged in a very tight triangle. There were others, smaller and then very small, scattered farther away amidst piles of various other bones, legs and ribs and arms and fingers and toes…then Merlin's eyes adjusted and he realized. And he knew that he would have vomited if it had not have been utterly inappropriate.

The heads of the men had been placed in a pyramid, their bones lain out before them, assembled into facsimiles of their bodies. They had been _arranged_. Swords had even been placed into what remained of the fingers of some of them. Warriors. They must have fought for their city. And lost. But their loss had been to an enemy that valued bravery. These warriors were awarded respect, even in death.

But the women…they had plainly been tossed down, bodily and carelessly. Merlin had spent enough time Gaius' physician's chambers to recognize certain shapes for what they were. Women. There were no weapons laid in _their_ hands…And those small bones, the tiny skulls…these were children. _Children_. Had they called for their mothers? Had they had time to weep for their fathers? Had they known what was happening? Merlin covered his mouth with his hand. He would never know, and he knew it. But he saw enough to imagine…women and children, killed defenseless and thrown down without any regard for basic humanity.

He understood why there was darkness in this place.

Blinking rapidly, he swallowed hard and looked up.

Then, he saw.

And he compartmentalized.

There were ribbons hanging along the walls, some even strung across between the walls of the moat like clotheslines. Merlin was glad that Arthur hadn't accidentally jumped on top of one of them. Creepiness factor aside, Arthur tended to have bad luck when sites like this were disturbed. Not that he was responsible for the bodies around which they were standing, but it didn't seem wise to tempt fate.

Merlin shivered, the strange feeling of peace mingling with unease that always overcame him whenever he visited sites like this. Touched by _these_ hands. He supposed that he ought to be thankful that he and Arthur were the only ones there. He wasn't sure how well Arthur would take to any interaction with them just then. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't if sure that Arthur knew that he also went by _Emrys._

"Arthur," said Merlin, hushing his voice instinctively. They _were_ in a mass grave, after all. "I think that this was the work of the Druids."

"What makes you say that?" Arthur's voice was tight and, when Merlin looked, he saw that Arthur was staring resolutely down at the bones beneath them. Merlin was almost amused. He might have laughed if he did not think that it would turn into a sob. But he could not weep. He _would_ not. He was _compartmentalizing,_ damn it. Still, it was a _little_ funny. Arthur was _still_ so uncomfortable with magic that he preferred facing the hundreds of skeletons than the _ribbons_..

Merlin looked around, carefully keeping his gaze at least waist-high. There were candles in the walls, dozens of them, wedged into cracks and crevices and secured by melted wax. They were half burnt, but the wicks were white and clean.

Yes, Druids had been here.

With a glance at Arthur, Merlin chose a candle and muttered a familiar word. With the light of a single candle, he hoped, Arthur would _have_ to see but wouldn't be so overwhelmed that his walls would collapse and he'd feel it all at once and then shut down. Arthur and Druid sites…

Suddenly, all of the candles around them ignited at once. From the flickerings that he could make out in the distance, popping into existence down the endless darkness of the moat, the candles along _all_ of the walls were lighting themselves.

"Oops," muttered Merlin. He hadn't seen _that_ coming. Although he _had_ wondered how the Druids always managed to keep so many candles burning when so many of them lived in _caves._

Arthur didn't jump or swear or even gasp at the sudden illumination, and Merlin knew that Arthur had known damn well what was hanging around them. And that he was probably sick of Merlin lighting things on fire. He _still_ hadn't forgiven Merlin for the room of fire that he'd conjured around them, so long ago. But Merlin was impressed more than anything. When Arthur focused on something, he _focused._ And he supposed that the bones were somewhat more disturbing than the hanging decorative fabrics.

"Thanks for that, Merlin," said Arthur, his voice flat but composed.

"How about we try this again?" suggested Merlin, trying to ignore their surroundings. "Arthur, I think that this was the work of the Druids."

Arthur glanced around, finally looking at the ribbons. "You think that the _Druids_ killed all these people?"

"What? No, of course not," said Merlin, startled. "Not the Druids. They're a peaceful people. But look at the ribbons…you've seen this sort of thing before, Arthur. We both have."

Arthur nodded, looking edgy. Merlin didn't press the matter. Arthur didn't like thinking about the _last_ time that they'd seen ribbons hanging around as left by the Druids. "So you're saying that they set this up as some kind of shrine for restless souls?"

Merlin nodded back. "I think so. Something terrible happened here, but it wasn't the work of the Druids. I'm sure of _that,_ at least."

Arthur looked frustrated. "So they just came and made a shrine?"

Merlin wished that he had the room to begin pacing. Standing still was becoming difficult. "I've heard of Druids doing this. Gaius spoke of how sometimes, bands of their people were known to travel throughout the lands, trying to bring peace and respite to those who can no longer seek it for themselves. They're a very spiritual people, Arthur. You complain about _me_ talking about feelings…you'd go mad if you had to spend an hour alone with the Druids."

Arthur sighed and ran his hands through his hair, a sure sign that he was getting very tired of not knowing anything. It took a lot for Arthur to start mussing his own hair. "So the Druids just wander around, hanging ribbons?"

"I guess so. They _are_ mostly nomadic," said Merlin, hearing the doubt in his own voice.

Arthur picked up on it as well. "You sound uncertain," he said suspiciously. "It's not very reassuring."

"It's…I'm just surprised, that's all," admitted Merlin. "There's so much _darkness_ in this place…Aithusa certainly wasn't lying about that. I've felt it as well. And the Druids are so inherently _good_—not to mention sensitive to all sorts of magic—I'm surprised that they could make the journey."

Arthur bit his lip, and Merlin wished that he hadn't shared his doubts. _He _barely understood the ways of the Druids. Arthur had only ever encountered them when he was killing or stealing from them. But he was trying.

"Maybe this darkness of yours—"

"It's hardly _my_ darkness—"

"—maybe it didn't settle in until after they came in and made their shrine."

Merlin shook his head, wanting to believe it so simple as that. "I would think that the darkness probably came with whatever killed all of these people."

For some reason, Arthur looked surprised. "Are you sure? Look at these ribbons, Merlin."

Before Merlin could question him, Arthur removed a candle from its waxy bracket and held it to one of the rope lines that crossed over their heads. Perplexed, Merlin stepped forward and looked.

The ribbons were all faded and frayed. They looked as though they were once shades of purple and red and green, but they were sun-bleached and element-damaged to the extent that it was almost impossible to believe that they'd ever had any coloration. These were _old_ ribbons. He didn't even dare touch one for fear that it would crumble beneath his fingertips. Merlin looked back at Arthur and raised his eyebrows. What was this supposed to prove? If anything, it supported _Merlin's_ argument.

Arthur just rolled his eyes and punched Merlin on the shoulder to get him to turn around.

"Couldn't have just said, 'look behind you, Merlin?'" Merlin muttered, rubbing his shoulder. Then he looked.

On the string that hung behind Merlin, there were ribbons, same as all the others. But these were…different. Intact. He stepped closer and touched one, very gently, nudging it closer to the candlelight. And he saw what Arthur was trying to show him.

"They're new," said Merlin, very quietly.

"Looks that way," answered Arthur.

Merlin stepped nearer and examined the ribbons more closely. They weren't exactly _new._ There were a few threads poking out at random angles, and they had the stiffness of fabric that had been soaked by rainwater and then dried by sunlight, over and over again. But they had _color_. These ribbons had not been hanging motionless in tribute to the dead for hundreds of years. These could not have been in this place for more than a decade, if that.

"The Druids came back," said Merlin.

"Looks that way," answered Arthur. "Maybe because there were so many people down here."

Merlin turned to face Arthur. The king's face looked strange in the flickering candlelight, sinister when in shadow and formidable in the brightness. "Or maybe because whatever happened here was so bad that even Druid magic can't hold it forever."

Arthur cleared his throat, looking suddenly embarrassed. "I don't suppose that this was all some kind of misunderstanding with the Druids. Maybe _they_ summoned me here to give me a message or talisman or blessing or whatever it is that Druids give people and we just misunderstood what they said. They do seem a rather cryptic people."

Merlin gave a sad smile, understanding. Arthur wanted it to be the Druids. He knew that it wasn't, but he wanted it so much that he just had to ask. Merlin knew the feeling.

"Arthur, if the Druids wanted to summon someone here, it would probably have been me. Or they would have at least suggested that I come with you. But I can't imagine the Druids wanting me in a place like this."

"Of course not," said Arthur, rolling his eyes and seeming to forget for a moment where they were. "They wouldn't want to do anything to inconvenience the mighty Merlin."

_Emrys,_ Merlin wanted to say. _They call me Emrys. _But Arthur had enough new information to process. His prophesied name did not seem so important in the scheme of things.

Instead, he said, "I think that this Druid shrine just happens to be here, Arthur. Or maybe it's connected to the magic of this place. But I don't think that it can possibly be connected to why we're here. You _or_ me."

Arthur still looked skeptical. "That's a hell of a coincidence."

Now Merlin was getting frustrated. "They're _Druids_, Arthur! They never sought revenge on Uther for hunting them down. They never even let you steal from them—remember the Cup of Life? They _gave_ it to you. They don't kill people or attack people or make mass graves or send cryptic—okay, yes, they can send cryptic messages sometimes. But not like what brought us here."

Arthur mussed his hair again. "I see what you mean, Merlin, but something just feels wrong about this. Something doesn't make sense."

"Does the something that feels wrong have anything to do with the skeletons that you and I are currently knee deep in?"

Arthur shook his head, undeterred. "I don't know what it is, but something about this smells bad. I think we're missing something."

Merlin sighed. "Arthur, _I'm_ the one of us with magic here."

Arthur looked at him seriously. "That's why you can't see it! You're not objective about it. Merlin, you've been off in your own world all day, even before we found the mass grave. Like you're in two places at once. And don't think that I haven't noticed you lighting your hand on fire over and over again. You're not _seeing_ anything. You're feeling it."

"I'm a sorcerer!"

Arthur shook his head again, looking determined and intense. "You're a man, too. You can't be _only_ a sorcerer, Merlin."

Merlin was beginning to grow angry. What did Arthur know about any of this?

"Do I have to start quoting prophecy at you?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I _know_, I'm supposed to be the greatest king ever. But I'm not _only_ a king and you, Merlin, are not a Druid! Just _look_ around. I know that I'm not going to be any good in this battle that's coming up. I _know_ that. But why do you think I'm here? Two sides of the same coin, you've said, over and over. If I listen to you, you had better damn well listen to me."

Merlin crossed his arms over his chest. "Fine. I'm listening."

Arthur looked like he wanted to punch him. "Merlin, how many battlefields have you seen? Sites of massacres and suicides and fire? Places of _death? _How many times have you been to the crypts of Camelot?"

"A lot," said Merlin, more sullenly than he'd intended.

"Yes. A lot," said Arthur pointedly. "And how many of those have terrified dragons to the point of disobeying a _Dragonlord? _How many have made you so sick that you fall off of a dragon's back, a hundred feet in the air? This was _men,_ Merlin. These people in this grave? Look at their injuries. _Look._ Those are cuts from swords. Those are nicks from arrows piercing armor. Those gashes are from daggers. This was men killing men. This darkness of yours…it didn't come from here. This is a darkness of men. Yours is a darkness of magic. Can't you _see _it?"

Merlin shook his head. He _really_ wanted to pace. "You don't understand, Arthur."

"Do _you_?"

Merlin groaned aloud, exasperated and annoyed. At the same time, all of the candles burned higher. He exchanged a nervous look with Arthur.

"Maybe we should stop arguing and calm down about this," said Merlin.

"Maybe we should," Arthur agreed cautiously, giving Merlin the side-eye that he always gave whenever Merlin was, according to Arthur, "being creepy."

Merlin tried to ignore the expression and look very hearty and un-creepy. "And maybe we should get the hell out of this place."

Arthur looked down at the ground and nodded, his expression thoughtful. When he raised his face once more, his eyes were determined and his face completely and carefully neutral.

"Go on up, Merlin," said Arthur, very quietly. "There's something that I need to do first."

Merlin went to the side of the moat, suddenly wanting desperately to be out and away from the death at his feet, and prepared to climb, hoping that he wouldn't have to ask for a boost. Then, he heard a clatter and looked back. Arthur had walked toward the haphazard pile that had been the women and children of this dead city. With a look of utter sadness rarely seen on the king's face, Arthur began to sort apart the various bones. Arranging them into recognizable forms. Merlin had never seen him handle something so gently.

Arthur was putting the innocents back together.

_The darkness of men_, Arthur had said. _Swords and arrows and daggers. _

Merlin hopped down, swallowed hard, and went to help.

Together, the two men did what the Druids could not. They put the dead back together again.

**.**

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**Kind of a grim chapter! A _smidge_ less humor than usual and rather darker, so I hope that it wasn't too off-putting.**

**As it is, I'll have to finish everything and go on official writing hiatus by the time that Season 5 begins and completely discredits all of my scenarios. :)**

**Confrontations coming soon! Updates will hopefully be quick—I have parts already written and I'm kind of excited. We'll see! **


	17. Reunions Of An Unexpected Nature

**Disclaimer: _Merlin_ is not mine.**

Arthur didn't know what he'd expected. He'd walked into his fair share of traps and ambushes in his life and, while he knew that those controlled by magic were likely to be rather different, he'd still thought that there would be a bit more…common ground.

But honestly, he thought to himself. What had he been thinking? They were _summoned_ here. Why would their path be blocked by fortified gates? Why would their progress be hindered by booby traps? Why would they be challenged by sentries at each doorway? What was he _thinking?_

Arthur shook his head, keeping his eyes steady on Merlin's back, squinting in the flickering and rather pathetically small light. It wasn't so bad that the castle did not look like it was a stronghold for some mighty enemy. Arthur could have dealt with that just fine. Looks can be deceiving; strong holds did not have to _look_ like strongholds to serve their purpose. It was just that _this_ castle did not even look _habitable._ Were it not for the moat of skeletons or Merlin's increasing twitchiness, Arthur would have begun to suspect that this was all some huge and ill-conceived joke.

Suddenly, the only light source in the corridor went dark, and Arthur found himself banging off of the side of a doorframe before he'd been able to stop himself.

"Merlin! Would you stop _doing_ that!"

A light flickered back on, and Arthur saw the bones of Merlin's face become strangely illuminated in the glow of the flame that he held in the palm of his hand. Merlin looked puzzled.

"Doing what?"

Arthur scowled. "Some of us are relying on our _sight_ to maneuver our way through this castle, Merlin, and _light_ tends to be helpful. Make up your mind! Light or dark, just _pick one._"

Merlin glanced at the fire, looking mildly surprised. "Oh. I was doing it again."

"Yes, _Merlin, _you were doing it again."

"Sorry."

Merlin shrugged and started forward again. Arthur sighed and followed. For the past hour, they had been wandering throughout the ruins in what Arthur could only describe as utter aimlessness. Merlin insisted otherwise, saying that he "sensed" where they needed to go. Well, thought Arthur, Merlin either needed to work on his sensory skills or Merlin was pulling his leg and had no idea where they were supposed to be going. He seemed to be taking turns at random, choosing hallway after hallway and room after room, wandering a crooked path throughout the castle. He didn't even seem to be paying attention to where his feet were falling. He just kept walking.

Walking, and lighting his hand on fire.

Over and over again.

In the shadowy stillness of the ruin, it was unnerving.

Also, annoying. Merlin seemed to keep forgetting that Arthur was trying to follow Merlin's footsteps rather than some mystical inclination, and _that_ was difficult to do in the pitch black. Besides, every time that he lit the fire, it glowed so brightly that he was all but blinded when it was extinguished again a few moments later. All in all, Arthur was not having the most focused of journeys.

And why did it have to be so _quiet?_

Arthur bit his lip and extended his arms out in front of him, hoping to feel any obstructions before he walked into them. If he smacked Merlin, so be it. He'd smacked into enough walls and door frames over the past hour that it only seemed fair for Merlin to take a hit or two. Then, he shook his head. It wasn't that it was just _quiet. _ It was…muffled. Whenever he or Merlin spoke, as they discovered quickly enough, they had to raise their voices just to be heard properly. Otherwise, their words just sounded like…syllables. Indistinct strings of sounds and intonations that didn't mean anything at all.

But it was only their voices that suffered so. All of the other sounds were amplified somehow, echoes bouncing off of the stone all around them until Arthur had to say something aloud just distract himself from the footsteps that seemed to follow them and rush them and chase them from every angle that he _knew_ where only his own and Merlin's, but it was so damn unnerving that he couldn't help but being discomfited. The sounds just wouldn't stop, and a sense of paranoid claustrophobia was beginning to take hold of him. And none of the sounds seemed to come from the outside world…

The outside world, which was sounding more and more appealing the longer than he trudged through these ruins behind his seemingly unconcerned companion. When he'd first climbed out of the moat of the dead, he'd been so burnt out that he hadn't even been properly alarmed when the massive white castle had loomed up out of nowhere in front of him. It was magically concealed, according to Merlin, speaking rather casually. Arthur had the impression, however, that Merlin was leaving something out. Still, exploring the castle sounded infinitely preferable to having to face what they had seen and done in the pit of skeletons, and so into the castle they went.

It _was_ beautiful, Arthur had to admit. There was a sort of desolate loveliness to the place, which seemed to be entirely made of stone. It was possible, he supposed, that there had once been tables and chairs and doors made of wood and they had merely been wasted away by the passage of time, but it felt unlikely somehow. For one thing, there _were_ tables and chairs, just made out of stone. No doors, but past every doorway, there was a blank wall preventing any passersby from being able to see past into the room without entering and going around the wall. It was a strange configuration, but Arthur could see how it could have been more or less effective. For himself and Merlin, however, it was just incredibly inconvenient. Not only did the blocking walls provide an extra surface into which Arthur could blindly collide, but it kept them from being able to judge the size or content of any room that they were entering. Entering _heedlessly,_ no matter what Merlin said about his senses. Merlin himself had conceded that he wouldn't mind having a clearer view of what he was walking them into.

Still, it was beautiful. But so empty. There were no skeletons—perhaps they were all down in the moat, he thought grimly—but there were also no dishes or tools. The chairs were all neatly arranged around the tables, as though prepared for a council that would never meet. The stone wardrobes were shut, but when he and Merlin pried a few open, they were all empty. Nothing so much as the sole of a boot or belt of a buckle. There were no candle brackets in any of the alcoves in the walls. Even the chests and dressers and desks, they found nothing within. Arthur supposed that it was possible that whatever enemy that had sacked the city had raided the castle and run off with all of the contents, but that didn't make all that much sense. Looters took _valuables,_ jewels and gold and weapons. There was a reason why Arthur's first order whenever someone was trying to usurp his throne and invade his castle—which seemed to happen far more often than could _possibly_ be normal—was to secure the armory. Enemies did not sack citadels to make off with the castle cutlery. What had happened here? It was all so intact and yet…incomplete.

Well, more or less intact. The roof was in shockingly bad shape. Arthur couldn't see how it hadn't completely collapsed in on itself. He _did_ have to smile rather morbidly at the idea that kings of all ages seemed to have issues with their council chambers collapsing, but it wasn't the same. There were spots and lengths and even whole rooms illuminated by what mottled sunlight could filter in through the gaps in the stone of the ceiling. It was the only natural light that Arthur had seen since they had crossed the threshold into the castle.

What _most_ unsettled Arthur, however, was not the echoes or the lack of doors or even the very real possibility that this whole quest would come to a rather abrupt conclusion when he was killed by a chunk of falling rock from the ceiling. It was the statues.

There were dozens of them. Probably hundreds, if there had been light enough for Arthur to see them all. They all had the shapes of humans, two legs and two arms and a torso and a neck.

But no head.

The statues had clearly _once_ had heads. They were smooth and soft, feeling like no statue that Arthur had ever touched. They felt as though there had never been a chisel taken to them and had simply come into existence in their very shape. But above their necks, on every single one of them, was a jagged and rough scar. The heads of the statues had been taken off, quickly and violently and ruthlessly. This told him two things.

First, that the statues had been very important to the people who had lived here.

Second, that their conquerors had been without mercy. Even with the citizens dead, they had felt the need to desecrate their figurines.

Maybe there _were_ sentries, Arthur mused sadly. The sentries were the headless statues crafted by a civilization extinguished, dozens and dozens of silent guards of a silenced people, all dead or destroyed. All abandoned.

He would have preferred dozens and dozens of living guards, hell-bent on his murder. He would have preferred that by far.

Also, irrationally, he wished that the heads were still on the floor or wherever they had fallen when they'd been lopped off. The heads had been taken. Somehow, the _missing_ heads made it all creepier.

Arthur shivered and kept walking, grateful for the dimness for once. He had to keep his eyes on Merlin and watch closely so that he wouldn't lose the sorcerer in the gloom. Considering the size of the place and the way their voices were muffled when they called out, Arthur wasn't sure if they'd ever find each other again if they were separated.

Arthur shivered again. He was cold, he realized. That was strange. It had been perfectly warm outside of the castle, and they'd been moving briskly enough that the activity should have kept them from taking a chill from the darkness. But he was cold.

Hastily, he glanced toward Merlin's face and squinted, wanting to see. If _Merlin_ was shivering as well, that was either very good or very bad, Arthur thought. If Merlin was shivering, surely that meant that the temperature had just dropped. If not, it was magic. He would be able to judge by Merlin. He was positive. After all, if it was _magic_ that was chilling Arthur, it surely wouldn't affect Merlin, would it? And if it was just the temperature, he would just deal with it. It wasn't _that_ cold.

In the dimness, Arthur couldn't pick out Merlin's features with any real clarity. Not at first. What he _did_ see was the little cloud of mist that seemed to be hovering in front of Merlin's face, growing brighter every few seconds.

Then Arthur realized, and he gave himself enough time to feel like an idiot before considering the significance.

Arthur's could see Merlin's breath.

He quickened his pace until he was closer behind Merlin. Able to see his face, Arthur noted that Merlin was very white. As he watched, Merlin's teeth began to chatter. Arthur almost groaned, hoping that the chattering would not echo around them like their footsteps.

Strangely, despite Merlin's pallor and shivers and far too visible breath, the young man did not look ill. His eyes _did_ glitter a bit, but that looked to be more from excitement rather than fever. Arthur thought that he knew what that meant.

They were getting close.

A thrill of anticipation ran through Arthur, tempered with more than a little bit of dread. He wasn't sure if he was ready for this. Of course, if he wasn't, he probably _never_ would be, but he would have liked to be sure. Besides, what did _he_ have to be so ready for? As Merlin had bluntly and rather tetchily reminded him earlier that day, Arthur's job was mostly going to be to stay out of the way and watch. Actually, Merlin had said that Arthur ought to stay out of the way and _hide,_ but Arthur had already decided that there was no way in hell that he was going to just _hide._ He was the king, and kings did not hide unless they damn well _wanted_ to. He was a warrior, and warriors do not hide unless it is part of an ambush. He was the man summoned, and he would not hide behind his sorcerer.

Also, he was incredibly curious. He'd seen Merlin's magic against mostly inanimate objects and nature. Yes, he had _sort_ of seen Merlin fling a sorcereress into a fireplace, but that had been before he knew anything of Merlin's secret and hadn't known what he was seeing. Merlin was powerful and, from what he could tell, Merlin's foe was going to be powerful. This would be a battle and, as experienced as Arthur _was_ when it came to battle, his sort of fighting tended to involve a sword. How did sorcerers battle? Yes, Arthur was curious.

Besides, she would know that he was there. They may have been nothing alike anymore, but they had grown up together. They still knew each other in some ways. She would know that he would never have sent Merlin on alone and that, even if Merlin had intercepted the letter and gone off on a suicide mission without telling the king, Arthur would have noticed Merlin's absence quickly enough and at least _sent_ someone after him. No, she would know that he was there. What would be the point in hiding from her?

He would_ not_ hide from her. Never her.

She must have gotten more powerful, Arthur thought, rubbing his arms with his hands. He'd never gotten cold from proximity alone before. He supposed that her malevolence might be amplified by whatever darkness that there was in the white stones around them, but still. She _must_ have gotten more powerful. How else could it be explained that Merlin kept being caught by various surprises?

He knew that Merlin had his doubts, but Arthur was sure. It was _her._ Merlin might have been an almighty sorcerer who could identify one type of magic from another from a mile away, but Arthur was her brother. He could identify her writing. Besides, he knew better than any left alive the extremes of which she was capable. The great love and great joy and great compassion that had endeared her to the people in the years before her betrayal were always countered by her great capacity to hate and envy and begrudge. She had such extremes, always…but Arthur had loved her, even when she was his sister in nothing more than circumstance. He had not needed blood to love her as a sister, and he did not need magic now to see her hand in what had brought them to this place.

It was nice to be sure of _something._

Arthur rolled his eyes and kept walking. It was too bad he couldn't be sure of something a little bit more substantial . Following Merlin, they turned a corner and there, only thirty feet ahead of them, _light_ streamed into the corridor. Arthur's heart leapt. They may have been in a dangerous situation over which they had next to no control and from which they were not likely to emerge unscathed, but damn it all, there was _light._

Sparing a glance at Merlin, he saw that the sorcerer seemed heartened as well. They quickened their pace. As they grew closer, Arthur saw that the light seemed to be streaming in through a large archway that apparently led outside. He wasn't sure exactly how that worked; as turned around as he was by Merlin's wanderings, he was positive that they were still in the heart of the castle. It couldn't possibly be a door to beyond the castle.

Forgetting his chill, Arthur turned the corner and faced out from the archway, Merlin at his side.

Arthur had not been mistaken; they had not somehow emerged outside of the castle walls. No, they had walked out into a _gap_ in the entire castle. It appeared to be a courtyard, constructed of the same white stone that comprised the rest of the castle. It was huge, at least in contrast to the cramped claustrophobia that had enveloped their earlier escapades in the ruin, and at _least_ as large as his council chambers in Camelot. Walking closer, Arthur saw that the courtyard grounds were actually lowered down into a sort of pit, at least two feet below the surrounding floor. Hewn into the wall along the pit were two steps, running along the entire length of the space.

Above the surface of the courtyard, elevated above the steps, the floor of the castle stretched around the pit in a huge framing rectangle, broken every ten feet or see by pillars that Arthur could not have wrapped his arms all the way around. Arthur could see that the elevation would give any spectator a good few of anything going on down below. Now that he looked more closely at the configuration, it resembled…an arena.

Curious, Arthur hopped down into the pit and looked around, hands on his hips. The white stones were cracked and grass was struggling to grow between them, but it was for the most part undamaged.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the statue. Arthur couldn't have said whether it was meant to be the figure of a man or a woman; like all of the other statues in the castle, the head had been lopped off and removed, and centuries of exposure to the elements left it only vaguely human-shaped.

It was _big._ Arthur walked closer, transfixed by the statue to stood in the very center of the pit. It was larger than any that he had in _his _palace, three times his own height and probably five times as broad, so far as he could tell. He wondered who it was. Standing atop a plinth that came up to Arthur's waist, he felt a bizarre urge to kneel down and bow. Was this a king of ages forgotten?

Arthur shook his head and looked away. He wasn't about to start bowing to any statues. Besides, there were probably more interesting things in this pit to look over. He gazed around.

He didn't see the body, not at first. He just caught sight of a shadow, mottled into shapelessness by the afternoon angle of the sun. His first thought was that it was the statue that was casting the shadow, but it couldn't have been. He could _see_ the statue's shadow. Then he figured that Merlin must have gotten around him somehow. The man _was_ sneakier than he looked. But then Arthur heard a thump behind him, and he knew without looking that Merlin had just jumped down into the pit. Merlin was _behind_ him.

That left only one person who could be casting this shadow, and Arthur felt himself growing cold again. Was he really ready for this? He had reconciled himself in years past to the fact that until he should be able to father children—preferably sons, if he had any say in the matter—he would be lacking in blood relatives. He'd accepted it; he'd found that not all families had to be bonded by blood. Still, it was always difficult to look at her and see her for what she had been. His sister. And then it was even worse to have to see her for what she had become. Evil. Twisted. Bitter.

And still his sister.

Arthur took a deep breath, steeling himself. Then, he raised his eyes and sought the source of the shade. After all, he hadn't come all of this way just to try to have a confrontation with her _shadow. _

He looked up.

It was not Morgana.

Arthur exhaled.

It was a boy.

He looked only a few younger than Merlin had when Merlin had first come to Camelot, all those years ago. As he stared, Arthur was struck by the resemblance between the two. Those startlingly blue eyes, so emotive and yet so guarded and so unyielding. That dark hair, standing out so starkly against the paleness of complexion. The look of vague malnourishment, as though he'd either been denied more than a single meal per day for the past ten years or had grown two feet so quickly that there was not enough meat for all of his bones. The expression of grim knowledge, cryptic and disarming. Who _was_ this boy? Merlin had no brothers or even cousins, as far as Arthur knew, but the similarities were too uncanny to strike him as anything other than _eerie._

The feeling did not pass, and he felt the hairs on his arms stand up. A shudder ran down his spine. No, this was definitely not Morgana.

Behind him, Arthur heard a sudden intake of breath, sharp and audible. He glanced back at Merlin and was shocked to see, for the first time since Merlin had told the truth about the properties of the summons, an expression of _fear_ on his face. All of the color came rushing back, all at once.

"Mordred," whispered Merlin.

The boy smiled.

"You're early."

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**Least surprising twist **_**ever!**_** :) At least **_**they**_** were surprised. Anyway, I'm back at school now, so updates might slow. On the other hand, I've already written the main climax (coming soon!), so some of it is already done. **

**Thank you for reading, and reviews are always very appreciated and very motivating. :)**


	18. Out Of The Realm Of Men

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine.**

For nearly a decade, Merlin had played the part of the fool.

It hadn't been a particularly difficult role to embrace; a young man still growing into his limbs and relatively unskilled at improvising dignified stories to cover for his mysterious absences had a much easier time giving the impression of lovable idiocy than any sort of cunning. He was used to being called a fool. Certainly, it _bothered_ him, but he had learned to live with it. After all, even if the world thought him an idiot, wasn't it enough that _he_ at least knew that he wasn't? It was certainly better than exile or execution. No, he could deal with being called a fool.

He just did not appreciate _feeling_ like one.

Of course it was Mordred. Of _course._ What the hell had he been thinking? It couldn't have been Nimue. Nimue, of all people! Not only had he seen her die, he'd been the one who had killed her. He had _felt_ the life force draining away from her as he'd done it. And it wasn't as though he hadn't been _thorough._ There hadn't even been a body left when he was done with her. How the hell could it have been _Nimue?_

At least Arthur was _also_ wrong. Morgana was nowhere to be seen, and Merlin was just fine with it. He knew that, now that he had revealed himself as a sorcerer and barring any extraneous circumstances, he had the freedom to defeat Morgana, and he knew that he could probably handle Mordred well enough. Or at least minimize casualties long enough for the Druid to flee, if he wanted to be totally honest with himself. The whole thing could be over and done with by sunset, Merlin told himself, so long as there were no particularly distressing distractions that could interfere with what he was planning on doing with…that could interfere with how this was going to transpire.

Although…

"Arthur," said Merlin, very quietly, stepping in front of the king. Arthur hadn't moved since Mordred had spoken. He had instead chosen to stand very still, presumably so that his expression of total confusion could be so clearly visible to everyone. Arthur…

"What?" Arthur whispered back, and Merlin was silently grateful that Arthur was keeping his voice low. Merlin did not know whether it was just Arthur's reactive moderation or if he sensed the urgency that was very deliberately _not_ in Merlin's voice. Or maybe Arthur had recognized Mordred. He _had_ heard Merlin call the boy by name.

Either way, Merlin was glad that Arthur was subdued.

"Arthur," said Merlin, speaking over his shoulder rather than facing him. "Listen. If anything happens to me, if I get hurt or trapped or anything like that, don't try to help me. No, I mean it. I don't care if I'm bleeding out of my ears or vomiting my intestines or my knees are bending backward. Just…stay back. And if I'm killed, you need to run. Immediately."

Merlin did not need to be able to see Arthur's expression to sense the indignation. "Merlin, if you think that I came all this way and watched you do all the crazy magic stuff to get us here just to _abandon_ you—"

"I mean it, Arthur," said Merlin firmly. "If I die, you need to run as fast as you can away from this place. If you make it to the border in the woods—you know, where Aithusa couldn't pass?—if you make it that far, yell for Aithusa. You're no Dragonlord, but I've told him to come if you call."

Arthur didn't answer for a few moments, and Merlin began to wonder if he'd heard when Arthur finally spoke.

"You knew this would happen?" asked Arthur. His voice was strange.

Merlin inhaled and shook his head. This wasn't going how it was meant to go…

"Better safe than sorry."

He heard Arthur snort behind him. "How's that working out for you?"

Merlin scowled, wishing that this conversation would hurry up and end. "It would work out a hell of a lot better if you'd just do me a favor and run away _now."_

"I'm sure it would," responded Arthur, and Merlin would have rolled his eyes in exasperation if he wasn't so unsurprised. Of course Arthur wasn't going to leave him. Never mind that it would be safer for _both_ of them if he were to run. Never mind that Arthur couldn't defend himself worth a damn against an attack from a man like Mordred. Never mind that Merlin ought to be focusing solely on Mordred rather than trying to keep track of Arthur as well. Never mind that Merlin had an easier time wading into the grayer areas of morality when he didn't have an audience of innocents. No, it was the _principle_ of the thing. Arthur wasn't going anywhere.

Stupid Arthur.

"Arthur?" said Merlin, locking his eyes onto Mordred, who had been watching the exchange with a mild boredom that vaguely offended Merlin. Mordred didn't even look _slightly_ interested. He was just…waiting.

Almost politely.

"What?" asked Arthur, still behind him.

"Stay. Back."

Arthur snorted again. "And what if I don't?"

Merlin shook his head, tensing his body. "You will."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because if you don't do it on your own, I'll do it for you," Merlin answered, trying to speak distinctly through gritted teeth. It wouldn't do at all for Arthur to think that Merlin was bluffing out of annoyance. Arthur _had_ to understand that Merlin meant it. Merlin almost smiled. So much for _wading_ into the morally gray areas. He would take a damn leap if he had to.

Arthur didn't answer, and Merlin decided to take that for assent. He decided that he would figure out how to interpret the silence later, if he had the chance.

Merlin took a deep breath. He looked at Mordred, unsure as to how he ought to start this. It would have been so much easier if Mordred would have just started hurling spears and rocks and curses at them. What was he supposed to do?

Merlin thought of the first time that he'd met Mordred, calling out in such innocent desperation for help, telepathically crying for mercy from an enemy that he was too young to feel anything more nuanced than fear. Fear, and hate.

He thought of how he had tried to let Mordred die, for no reason other than because of something that he was told that the boy would one day do, twisting himself up until his head spun in prophecy and fate and destiny and all of the other horribly damning abstractions that seemed to converge around Mordred. And himself, he supposed.

He thought of how Mordred had helped to turn Morgana, influencing her turn to the darkness nearly as much as Merlin had.

He thought of how Mordred was supposed to be able to harness crystals that even Merlin feared to approach.

He thought of the fear that he'd first seen in Mordred's eyes, and the malice that he'd seen in them last.

So Merlin did the only thing that he could think of.

He smiled.

"Hello, Mordred."

The young man lowered the hood of his mossy green cloak and inclined his head in Merlin's direction, still giving off the bizarre air of politeness.

"Emrys."

Merlin didn't really know what to say. He'd fairly played his trump card with the "hello." He had hoped that Mordred would seize the opening and start expositing about the whole nightmare scenario that he seemed to have created for Merlin and Arthur. Were they supposed to just…have a nice little mundane chat?

Well, if there was one thing that Merlin was good at, it was mundane chatting. "Why do you call me that? 'Emrys?'"

"You know why," answered Mordred matter-of-factly.

Merlin sighed and wanted to pace. "My given name is _Merlin_. My prophesied name is Emrys, and my destiny has nothing to do with you."

"What makes you say that?" asked Mordred. He sounded curious._ Curious._ Merlin gritted his teeth again.

"I know."

Mordred shrugged sullenly, for the first time looking like the teenage boy that he was. "We'll see."

"No, Mordred," said Merlin firmly. "_I know._"

Mordred smiled again, very slightly. "That makes two of us here. Tell me, Emrys. Have you told the third?"

Merlin just glared and did not answer. He really wanted to move.

"Interesting," said Mordred. "You grew too close to him."

Merlin shook his head again. Arthur didn't need to know. Not this. What good would it do? The worst part of having a destiny, Merlin thought, was _knowing_ about it. And Arthur's wasn't exactly quite so complimentary as Merlin's. Merlin's ultimate fate was a _destiny._ Arthur's was a doom.

No, Arthur did not need to know, and _certainly_ not from Mordred. "What do you want with me, Mordred?"

Mordred shrugged again. "I want nothing from you."

Merlin felt his body begin to quiver, and he wished that Mordred would look away from a moment. He needed to _do_ something, and this didn't seem to be the right time to start lighting his hand on fire or pacing. He needed to _move._ "Then why did you want me here?"

Mordred shook his head slowly. "Oh, the arrogance of Emrys...I spoke the truth. I do not want you here."

Merlin inhaled deeply, stilling himself for a moment. "You don't seem surprised that I _am_ here."

"I'm not," answered Mordred.

"I hate Druids," muttered Arthur behind him. Merlin almost jumped; he'd all but forgotten that Arthur was there. He wished so much that Arthur's belly would just do him a favor, turn yellow, and he'd run. "Would it kill them to give a straight answer every now and then?"

"What do you _want,_ Mordred?" asked Merlin, sounding appropriately annoyed and trying to ignore Arthur. As though ignoring Arthur might make Mordred forget that he was there. Arthur was just so damn _helpless_ and he didn't understand….

"What I want does not concern you, Emrys," said Mordred, and Merlin thought that Arthur had a point about Druid conversational skills.

"Then why am I here?"

"It was your choice to come," said Mordred, sounding almost _petulant_ for a moment. Merlin almost laughed at the absurdity. "It was not _you_ who was summoned."

It took Merlin a full thirty seconds to grasp what Mordred was saying, a fact that would have immediately embarrassed him if it hadn't so alarmed him.

Also, Arthur clearly hadn't figured it out either, so that helped a bit. Merlin turned away from Mordred for the first time and looked at Arthur, fear beginning to course through him. Arthur noticed Merlin's expression and looked from him back to Mordred, picking up on the sudden tension.

"Me?" asked Arthur, sounding incredulous.

"Your name was on the summons, Arthur Pendragon," said Mordred quietly.

"I read the summons. I just…haven't you just used me to get to Merlin here? Or Emrys? Whoever the hell you think he is?" Arthur sounded frustrated, and Merlin felt a stab of pity. He was so very out of his element. All that it seemed that Arthur was sure of was the fact that he was in the presence of two very powerful sorcerers who knew a great deal about something that he did not. For all he knew, Arthur was _bored._

"I do not _think_ he is anything," responded Mordred. "I know what he is."

"Are you being _deliberately_ vague now?"

"Arthur!" hissed Merlin.

"What!"

"This is _Mordred._"

"I got that, Merlin. Who the hell is he?"

A flash of emotion crossed Mordred's face. "You haven't told your king who I _am?_"

Merlin almost smiled. It seemed that Emrys was not the only sorcerer with a touch of arrogance. This was good. "It never came up."

Mordred opened his mouth to respond, but Arthur cut him off.

"'Mordred,' you say?"

"That is my name, yes."

Arthur stared at him disbelievingly. "_You're_ the little boy that I saved all those years ago?"

Mordred scowled. "You delivered me to my people."

"_You_ sent for me?"

"In a matter of speaking," muttered Mordred, and Merlin felt another stab of satisfaction. Mordred's vaguely threatening comments sounded far less threatening when they were coming from the mouth of a sulking boy than from a sociopathic sorcerer.

Merlin couldn't be _too_ satisfied, however. Arthur was beginning to get angry, and that was not good. Ignoring Merlin's attempts to block his path, he moved closer to Mordred. Merlin chewed on his lip. Arthur was now standing between him and Mordred. If anything were to happen _now..._

"I saved your life!" Arthur yelled.

Mordred shook his head, as calm as Arthur was agitated. "You delivered me to my people because others whose affections you valued asked it of you. My life made no difference to you."

Arthur chose to ignore the accusation implicit in Mordred's statement. Merlin couldn't blame him. Arthur had many faults as king, but he was a fairly staunch believer in the concept of the punishment fitting the crime. Mordred, it seemed, was not. "So you're avenging yourself by luring me here to wherever the hell we are and threatening my kingdom and menacing my queen because you didn't like _how_ _I saved your life_ a decade ago? Really?"

Merlin snorted. Arthur had always had something of a knack for restating some of his more bizarre stories in a fashion that made them sound appropriately ridiculous and fairly embarrassing; it was nice to see someone else on the receiving end.

Mordred did not react. Merlin took it to be a good sign anyway.

"Not everything is about you, Arthur Pendragon," said Mordred cryptically. Merlin assumed that Mordred was just lacking in a cunning comeback and was choosing vagueness as a deflector when Mordred turned away from Arthur and looked at Merlin.

Then Merlin understood. He inhaled sharply, and Mordred gave a strange lipless smile that was even more unnerving than the glare in those blue eyes of his. "You have begun to put it together then, Emrys?"

Suddenly very angry, Merlin strode forward, moving past Arthur and shoving him behind him again. "You're doing all of this because I _tripped_ you? Eight _years_ ago? That was half of your life ago!"

Mordred did not move. "It was not the action but the intention that caused the offense."

Merlin wanted to shake the boy. "I _intended_ to trip you!"

All signs of the petulant teenager slipped from Mordred's face as though it had been nothing more than a particularly uncomfortable mask that he couldn't bear to wear for too long. "You intended for me to die at the hands of another. You intended for me to die without having to kill me yourself."

Merlin stood very still. He felt Arthur's eyes on him and wanted to look away from Mordred's. He'd always known this about himself. It was just much easier to pretend that he was the only one who did.

"You were a child," Merlin protested weakly. Even he could hear the thinness of his argument. "Why would I want you killed? You were just a child…"

The hints of a smirk began to tug at the corners of Mordred's mouth. His eyes were unyielding. "Does it ever trouble you, Emrys, that you are so much more willing to kill those who do not have magic than those who do?"

"I don't think about it," said Merlin honestly, wondering in the back of his mind whether he ought to be more bothered that he wasn't more bothered by all of the killings that he'd done in his lifetime and how he seemed to be discriminating his victims. "I don't think about it."

"Nor did Uther," said Mordred quietly.

Merlin felt his body shudder again, and he closed his eyes for a moment. Just breathing. He couldn't attack. Not yet. He had to remain calm. "Don't you think that you're being just a little bit childish about this?"

"I do not," came Mordred's flat reply.

"You don't think that this plan was a little bit overly complicated? How could you even be sure that Arthur would bring me along?"

Mordred shook his head back and forth. A shock of black hair fell in front of his eyes, and Merlin was struck by the strange and unsettling _beauty_ of Mordred. "It did not matter if you came, Emrys."

Merlin tensed his body, preparing.

"So you'll get your revenge on me by murdering an innocent man? He asked, keeping his voice steady.

Mordred did not even blink. "He is not innocent. How many of my kind has he killed?"

"How many of his kind have _you?"_

Mordred smiled. "Listen to yourself, Emrys. Listen carefully, because you must one day make your choice and face the consequences."

"My choice about _what?"_

"About whose side you're on."

"He _saved_ you!"

"Merlin, what's going on?"

Merlin clenched his jaw and tried to think clearly without distancing himself from the situation. From the urgency in his voice, Arthur was finally cottoning on to the fact that the two sorcerers were discussing more than magical politics and past transgressions. He was figuring out just how much Merlin had _not_ been bluffing about how he ought to flee. He was figuring out that it was too late now for him to have the option.

"Never mind, Arthur," spat Merlin, adding another mark to the tally of things that he was not telling Arthur. Forget the arrogance of Emrys, he thought grimly. 'Presumptuous' was sounding like the more fitting adjective these days.

"He saved me at the behest of his sister," said Mordred, continuing as though Arthur hadn't said anything. "And keeping a pet sorcerer and carrying an magic sword _now_ does not absolve him of the first thirty years of his life."

"My sword is _magic?" _inquired Arthur sharply from behind him.

"Yes, Arthur!" snapped Merlin.

"I thought it was just magic_al,_ not, like, _made of magic."_

Now Merlin wanted to shake Arthur. He knew that Arthur more or less putting on a performance for Mordred, hoping for an underestimation or two, but _still._ "It's a regular sword that's been enchanted, Arthur!"

Arthur stepped into his eyeline, looking _annoyed._ "Why are you so edgy? You're twice his age. And you spend half your time lecturing me about what a legendary sorcerer you're supposed to be—"

"I can answer that," interrupted Mordred coolly, and Merlin noted that the boy did not seem to like being ignored. "He is nervous because he was not expecting me. He was expecting a priestess called Nimue."

"That lady who tried to kill me in a cave that time?"

Merlin almost laughed, pretending that it didn't matter that Mordred seemed to know about his suspicions of Nimue. Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot and king of understatement. "Yes, Arthur, that lady you tried to kill you in the cave. Among other things."

Mordred just kept speaking. "And I may be younger than your friend here, but I was raised by what few Druids escaped your father's slaughter. _I_ lived and breathed magic for nearly fifteen years before they sent me away. Emrys spent the first twenty-five years of his life in hiding. _That_ is why he fears me. That, and the fact that I have a destiny with which Emrys is familiar, and it is a destiny that frightens him."

Merlin glared at Mordred, hoping against hope that he could just leave these warnings cryptic, storing aside for future contemplation Mordred's statement that the Druids sent him away. What could Mordred have done for the _Druids_ of all people to refuse him?

He shook his head. That didn't matter just then. What mattered was that he truly did _not_ need Mordred to elaborate on what he was fated to do in front of _Arthur._ Arthur had enough on his mind, and the last thing that Merlin needed at that moment was for Arthur to get reckless.

"For goodness' sake, Merlin!" exploded Arthur, so suddenly that Merlin actually broke his gaze from Mordred and looked at the king. "Does _everyone_ you know have to have a destiny?"

Merlin breathed a rather shallow sigh of relief at the temporary reprieve. "I don't do it on purpose, Arthur!"

"So, I'm destined to unite Albion. You're destined to help me and be an amazing sorcerer. What's _his_ destiny? And please don't say that it's to kill you, because I have had _enough_ of your deaths on this trip of ours."

Merlin bit his lip, determined to choose his words carefully and be as honest as he could without really providing any useful information. "No, his destiny isn't to kill me."

Arthur paused and stared at him for a moment. "I don't believe you."

Merlin couldn't believe it. They were going to have _this_ discussion? _Now?_

"Why the hell not?"

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. "You never tell me this sort of thing. You just don't want me to know."

Merlin winced and hoped that Arthur did not notice. If he only knew how close he was to the truth….

"How do you know that I don't tell you this sort of thing if I've never told you?"

"I just know!"

"He does not lie," said Mordred, his voice in such quiet contrast to the heated tones of Merlin and Arthur that Merlin was ashamed. What a time for them to have an argument about honesty in their relationship! No wonder people called him Arthur's first wife.

Arthur turned to Mordred. When he spoke, his voice was quieter as well, and Merlin wondered if he too was embarrassed by their inability to prioritize.

It was a good thing they were planning to kill Mordred, he supposed. No witnesses to his and Arthur's latest stupid argument. Dead Mordred meant that no one would have to know.

It then occurred to Merlin that perhaps he had his priorities mixed up once more. But hey, he thought desperately, dead Mordred was dead Mordred.

"You're not destined to kill Merlin?" asked Arthur, remaining somewhat more on task.

Mordred shook his head, looking curiously at Arthur. Wondering. A chill ran down Merlin's back as Mordred answered. "Not him, no."

Merlin wanted very much to interrupt, but what was there to say? He could not longer just play the fool and hope that Arthur would forget what he'd been talking about so that he could question his own judgment for keeping an idiot like Merlin for a manservant. What on earth could he say that wouldn't just make Arthur all the more curious?

Sometimes, he missed being the fool.

Arthur was still looking at Mordred. "I don't suppose that you're destined to _not_ kill him, are you? Because that would be _great._"

"Arthur!" Merlin finally hissed.

"What?"

"Stop _talking_ to him!"

"Why? You are," Arthur shot back, looking half puzzled and half angry. They both had their roles to play.

Merlin opened his mouth to say _something_. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately, considering his lack of plan—Mordred cut him off.

"He does not fear me, Emrys."

Merlin wanted to throw something or lie down or weep or call for a dragon and fly off into the sunset, never looking back and leaving Mordred and Arthur to work things out on their own. He wanted desperately to be far away and far removed and just some peasant living in Ealdor. He didn't want to be responsible for anyone's life or make decisions that were so inherently unfair that they could only be justified as being less awful than any possible alternative. At that moment, he wanted to not matter.

Instead, he said, "He doesn't understand!"

Mordred cocked his head to the side. "Do you?"

"More than he does," said Merlin, hearing the exhaustion in his own voice.

"I imagine that that is true of many subjects."

Suddenly, before he could stop himself, Merlin found himself _laughing._ Had Mordred just called Arthur stupid?

Then, he saw the glint in Mordred's eye. He looked…smug. Slowly, deliberately, Mordred raised his cloak back up over his head, casting his features into shadow. Merlin had never seen such an innocent gesture seem so malevolent. He looked like an executioner donning his hood. Then, Mordred turned toward Arthur.

Merlin raised one hand toward Mordred.

Arthur's eyes widened.

There was nowhere for any of them to run. Nowhere for any of them to go. Nothing for any of them to do. Merlin could only stand still and wonder which of them was going to not do nothing first.

And then, someone moved.

It wasn't Arthur. Arthur had not seemed to have budged an inch since Merlin had shoved him backward and away from Mordred, which Merlin considered both a very prudent and a very foolish decision. By staying in one spot, he was unlikely to run himself into a magical attack gone awry. On the other hand, he was making himself a remarkably easy target. Merlin supposed that he ought to consider himself lucky that Mordred's vengeful plan for getting back at Merlin by killing Arthur apparently relied so heavily on Merlin's defeat beforehand. And that it involved relating the details of the whole endeavor to the two intended victims, oddly enough. But it was not Arthur who moved.

Nor was it Mordred. Mordred stood still—eerily, almost unnaturally still—opposite him in the ruined courtyard, hands clasped behind his back in mockery of the servile stance that Merlin had so mastered. He might as well have been one of the hundreds of statues that stood sentry over the ruined castle, brother to the behemoth that towered over them all in the very center of the courtyard, save for the presence of his head.

It wasn't even Merlin. Merlin's stance was far more poised than Mordred's, more alert. But he was motionless, his limbs unbending and already growing stiff with the prolonged motionlessness. He was breathing rather hard, yes, but he felt that that was somewhat understandable. He stood unmoving, facing Mordred and waiting for Mordred to move, even as Mordred waited on Merlin. No, it was not Merlin who moved.

It was someone else.

Merlin couldn't even tell who it was at first. It almost didn't matter. He just saw the movement out of the corner of his eye, a silent dark fluttering moving against the whiteness of the cracked bricks around them, only _just_ within his field of vision.

It was enough. He saw that it was a tall figure, skin pale and perfect and bloodless, with hair as dark as his own, long and tangled and neglected, cloaked in what must have once been a proper gown, now ripped and torn and beaten in by exposure and disinterest. It was a figure of extremes, black and white and fair and foul and good and bad and everything all at once. Even out of the corner of his eye, he could see that she was still beautiful despite it all, and he remembered how in a single moment she had once been the most elegant woman that he had ever seen before.

And then Merlin made the biggest mistake of his entire life.

He looked at her.

He looked at her and saw without desire save for a dash of nostalgia that she was still so beautiful. So beautiful and so sad and so lonely and so utterly lost in so many ways. He saw that she hated herself for it almost as much as she hated everyone who had contributed to her downfall. He saw what had happened to her, what had been done to the most elegant woman that he'd once ever seen, saw what his _mercy_ had made of her, and he felt pity.

Then, in an instant and before he even decided that he was going to do it, Merlin whipped around and pointed both of his hands, palms open and fingers upward, at Morgana. He felt angrier than he had in a very long time. This was all so _unnecessary_ and it was mostly his fault but he wasn't going to do this to _himself_ so he would settle for doing it to her.

She looked at him and had time to realize. He was glad for that. Even if she only had an instant to acknowledge him, he wanted her to know who it was that was doing this to her. He wouldn't have to take the time to tell her why. She would know. They looked at each other, one full of hate and one full of sadness and he was just trying to figure out which was which when he heard someone shout in alarm. He was surprised for a moment; it was odd to hear Mordred lose control like that. But no matter. He would deal with Mordred in a moment. He just had to do this one thing first.

Then, he heard the words that Mordred was shouting, and they were in a different language but they were in a language that Merlin knew and he understood them quickly enough and well enough and with enough familiarity to wonder what it was going to feel like when it finally happened and he wasn't surprised because it was his own fault for looking away and he should have known better than to try to deal with the lesser of the two evils first. He felt his body reel and twist; first toward Morgana, who looked astonished and then afraid and then uncertain; then, Arthur, who looked so much like Morgana at that moment that Merlin wanted to tell him about it and he would have told him if he hadn't been so busy doing something else; then Mordred, who did not look pleased or unhappy or anything other than underwhelmed and Merlin wanted so much to feel the warmth in his hands and the tingling on his tongue as he chose the words that would wipe away Mordred's dutiful dullness, numbed by the inevitability of a destiny that could not be avoided. But then he reeled again, and all that he saw was the broken white stones below his feet, and all that he could feel was nothing.

He wondered vaguely if that was how Mordred felt.

But then he didn't want to wonder anything.

He did think, however, that he was going to hurt himself when he fell down. And Arthur was going to laugh at him. Wasn't that what Arthur always said? Manservant Merlin, always on the ground or in a closet or under a table whenever there was a bit of fighting going on. Arthur would laugh, but that was okay. It _was_ funny. Maybe they would laugh about it together, over a bowl of acorn paste and Arthur would accuse him of talking to horses and Merlin would accuse Arthur of being an idiot and it would all be okay. Arthur would maybe remind Merlin of all of his failings and deficiencies and flaws until he got bored with Merlin's silent treatment and started being nice again.

Maybe they would be as they were in the beginning and as they were now and as they would have been later if there had been a later and Arthur would throw something at Merlin because he was a prat but Merlin would duck because he had _learned,_ or maybe Merlin would call Arthur a prat and Arthur would laugh because _he_ had learned. Maybe it had all been enough.

But it wouldn't. Because Arthur would still be here, but so would the other two…why were they so angry? Why did they have to be so angry? Why did they have to know their destinies? It would have been so much easier to hurt and kill and maim and die if he had known that it had been all his choice all along, if he didn't have to doubt that it was just fate stepping in to take over again. He wished that none of them knew….

_I'm sorry,_ he wanted to tell Morgana. _I never should have poisoned you. You were my friend, and you deserved better than poison._ He needed her to understand. _I should have just killed you. I had to do _something,_ but poison is the coward's weapon. I never wanted to, but I'd do it again, just differently…don't worry, I'm different now too. Neither of us are untouched anymore._

_I understand,_ he wanted to tell Mordred. _I understand. We're two halves of a different coin, you and I, and if weren't for my damnable destiny, we might have been on the same side. We would have been a hell of a team. Unstoppable. Maybe Nimue, too, we would have been on the same side because your side made sense and mine didn't, but I didn't have a choice. I never got to choose my side. Just ask the dragon._

_You were right,_ he wanted to say to Arthur. _You said that Morgana was involved, you kept saying it and I wouldn't listen because it involved magic and I never listened to you when you tried to talk about magic. The arrogance of Emrys…You're going to die now,_ he wanted to tell him._ You're going to die because I wouldn't listen and because I won't kill my own kind unless I have no choice and even then I might not and I could have saved you but I couldn't because I wouldn't and there are so few of us but you never even got to have children..._

There were so many things that he wanted to say, and it was only as everything was growing hot and cold and distant and dark that it occurred to him that he wasn't going to have time to launch into any of his speeches. He wouldn't have time.

No time...

When he closed his eyes to blink, he saw red.

When he opened his mouth to breathe, his teeth stung.

When he inhaled, his lungs burnt and sagged.

When he opened his eyes, he saw so much gray that he thought that it might be black.

When he tried to speak, there was no breath and his tongue was thick and heavy and the words wouldn't come out.

He said them anyway.

He just wished that he could have heard them, that _someone_ would hear them, so that they would matter and someone would understand why they had been his final words.

But then, after a moment, Merlin found that he didn't really wish anything at all.

It was nice.

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**Thank you for reading! I know that it's been a ridiculous delay, but my life has been crazy lately. I've also been trying to organize the various ways that I want this story to end, which I have to get to before Season 5 starts or else not finish it at all. I **_**do**_** have plans for the rest of it, so hopefully I'll keep it coming. **

**Also, as I've been writing this, I've had to cut a lot of "deleted scenes" that I wanted to work in but could never find the space for. I might post them for fun as "outtakes" at the end or separately. If I do, I'll probably include cut scenes from "What Goes Around" and "Comes Around" as well. They're already written, so I'll see if I get up the nerve to be nerdy enough. :)**

**Reviews are always very much appreciated! Feedback can always help.**

**As a side note, I know that it's meant to be spelled "Nimueh" rather than "Nimue," but I misspelled it way back in "What Goes Around," so I'm kind stuck with it. :)**

**Thank you! **


	19. Family Matters

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine**.

She had expected him to run.

She'd known him for years, for most of both of their lifetimes. She had seen him try to sacrifice himself on behalf of his people time and time again, ignoring his status as the only acknowledged heir to the throne. She'd seen him volunteer for dangerous duties for which he was astonishingly ill-suited, just to save someone else from having to attempt them. She had seen him be so brave and so noble and so generous that if she didn't see how stupid of him it was, she would have envied him the corresponding popularity. He was ruled far too often by his heart rather than his head. She _knew_ this about him.

Still, she had expected him to run.

Well, she acknowledged, he _had_ run. He had run right over to the spot where Merlin had fallen, reaching the boy's side before his body had time to so much as _bounce_ on the broken bricks of the courtyard, struck down by Mordred. Yes, Arthur had run.

Just not in the direction that she'd expected.

It wasn't as though she could underestimate Arthur's loyalty. When he made up his mind that he cared about someone, he tended to become dedicated to the point of idiocy. How he hadn't cottoned on to her change of loyalties during that final year at court was beyond her. He hadn't even picked up on _Agravaine's_ treachery, and Agravaine had just embarrassed her sometimes.

But Arthur tended to blind himself to common sense when it came to family. Apparently, Merlin now counted as family. It was almost touching, in an absurdly insulting fashion. Lying—albeit with surprising success for a simple boy such as Merlin—for most of a decade hadn't seemed to put much of a damper on their friendship. In hindsight, what she'd heard of Merlin's exile just made the whole thing sound like Arthur had thrown a particularly drastic temper tantrum and sent him away. And _they_ weren't even related_._

Not that she wanted Arthur's forgiveness. If anything, he ought to be begging for hers. But it would have been nice to know that he was at least somewhat regretful of his behavior toward her in recent years. After all, was what she had done so very different from what Merlin had done? Granted, Merlin hadn't exactly imprisoned Arthur's father and taken his castle and unleashed an immortal army on his people or anything like that. But _still._

Not that he _could_ even if he wanted to, she thought petulantly. Maybe if he was smarter, Merlin would have sided with those defending magic—those like _him—_rather than the family who had spent thirty years slaughtering them. And maybe if he had the power, he would have followed her example. When she thought of all of the times that she had gotten the best of Merlin and the ease with which she had done it…no, she'd known that Arthur was unlikely to make the journey without Merlin. She just hadn't been particularly frightened at the prospect. Of course, she knew that _Emrys_ tended to involve himself in Arthur's affairs, but Emrys was an old man. Merlin was a clumsy peasant who knew a few magic tricks, but he had a pair of young legs and an ridiculously dogged devotion to Arthur. Merlin would come. Merlin would be Arthur's magical muscle.

_Merlin!_

She would have laughed if she was not so wary just then. Watching Arthur, she saw as he knelt next to the fallen sorcerer's body, placing himself between Morgana and what had been Merlin. Shielding him. Somewhere, deep down inside her where she understood why she'd been poisoned all of those years ago, she was almost touched. Arthur would try to protect him, even now. She could see as he placed a hand on Merlin's chest and tilt his blank face so that it faced the sky. Morgana understood. Arthur was making sure. He had seen Merlin fall—collapsing with undignified floppiness, as though all of his muscles disappeared from his body all at once—and hit the ground head first. And it had been _Mordred._ Even Arthur seemed to understand that Mordred was not a force to be reckoned with. No, she had seen the look on Arthur's face as Merlin was falling. Arthur knew.

But he was checking anyway.

It didn't take him long. Morgana wasn't surprised when she saw Arthur turn away from Merlin and sit down on the ground, _hard,_ his head in his hands and staring down at the ground. He didn't move. He knew, and she was glad. She hadn't counted on this at all—in all of her plans, Merlin had only ever figured into the equation as a random extra who was unlikely to affect any of the goings on unless he tripped on one of them while he was trying to find a place to hide—but she was glad that Arthur had seen this before. He would know what had happened and she would give him long enough to _feel_ it and then she would finally do it. _Finally._ She knew it.

Still, she wanted to check anyway.

"Mordred," she said, her voice wobbling a bit. "Mordred, is he—"

He didn't answer, so she tore her gaze away from Arthur and looked at Mordred. She shivered almost immediately; Mordred hadn't been watching the grief-stricken tableaux that he'd caused with a single word. He was watching her.

"Merlin…is he—"

"Morgana," said Mordred, cutting her off. "Do you doubt me?"

He did not sound angry, as she would have expected. He did not even sound irritated. He sounded…curious. "I just want to be sure."

"Morgana, he is dead," said Mordred, his voice flat. He didn't seem satisfied. If anything, he sounded unhappy. After a moment, he said, "I shouldn't have done that."

For a moment, she didn't know what to say. Mordred had spoken to her very little in the months since they had joined together, and he had certainly never said anything even remotely self-deprecating. "Why not? He was…"

She suddenly realized that she didn't want the answer to her question. Merlin had been about to attack her, and Mordred had taken him out before Merlin had had the chance to do anything damaging. She'd assumed that Mordred had been protecting her, that some of their mutual fondness of his childhood remained, that he was willing to deviate from their plan—even if only slightly—to keep her from whatever injury _Merlin_ might have been capable of causing her. She'd assumed that he was protecting her.

But if he was regretting it…

"It was not part of my plan," said Mordred unhappily, answering her unfinished question. "It was not what was written. I should not have done that."

"Can you—"

"But it is done." His voice began to retake the biting authoritativeness, quiet and unnerving, that it had maintained since he had found her again. "It is done."

"Yes," responded Morgana, just for the sake of saying something. Everything felt off. Mordred was unhappy with himself. Merlin had tried to attack her. Arthur hadn't run. It didn't feel right. "Yes."

Mordred looked away from her, and she found herself staring at the ground, not really knowing why. She wished that she had somehow managed to plan for this.

"I made you two promises, Morgana," said Mordred stonily. "I would grant you your brother."

"And Emrys," she said softly.

"And Emrys," he repeated, sounding displeased again.

"What of Merlin?" she asked, hoping to calm him down before his displeasure grew unpredictable. She didn't like it when Mordred was unpredictable.

"What of him?"

"You killed him."

"Would you have me kill him again?"

"I _wanted_ him," she said, realizing for the first time that she _had_ wanted him. She'd wanted to speak to him. She had things to ask him and names to call him and accusations to make of him and she just would have liked to _speak_ to him, even if only for a moment or two.

"_Merlin_ was not part of our bargain," answered Mordred, sounding as though he was choosing his words very carefully.

"He tried to _poison_ me," said Morgana, wincing as she heard the shrill petulance in her voice. She was no longer the bastard princess of Camelot, and Mordred was certainly not Uther. She could not whine or guilt compassionate favors from him. She needed logic or prophecy on her side. She needed him to need her and now, she realized with a jolt, he _didn't._

Suddenly, she heard laughter. Foolishly, she glanced at Mordred before she remembered the absurdity of the prospect of Mordred _laughing._ It was almost as absurd as imagining Merlin as the all-powerful sorcerer or Guinevere as a woman of any deserved regality or Arthur as the greatest king that Camelot would ever know.

Then, even more foolishly, she glanced to where Merlin's body had fallen, already annoyed. If anyone could find a way to haunt her and laugh from beyond the veil, it would have been Merlin.

His body lay motionless. As dead bodies tend to do, she thought, cursing her own stupidity. Of course he wasn't moving.

The legs that stood over him, however, _were._ They shook, and Morgana half expected them to collapse until her eyes moved upward to where she saw a remarkable sword gleaming in the firm grip of a hand, unsheathed and at the ready.

When had he gotten up?

She almost smiled. He had just seen Merlin drop like a sack of potatoes at a single word from Mordred and was more than aware of Morgana's powers, but there he was, readying his sword to take them on. _Arthur_, she thought, almost fondly. He was going to die, but he would be damned if he would die without a sword in his hand and defiance in his heart.

Then she looked to his face and found the source of the laughter.

Arthur was laughing harder than she had ever seen him laugh, and she had known him for a long time. She'd seen him laugh himself into a bloody nose the first time that she'd been drunk and he'd had to come to help her to her chambers before Uther found out. But this was different.

For a moment, she wondered if his legs were shaking at the knowledge that his only potential protector of the magical variety lay dead at his feet or because he seemed to find it all hilarious.

"Arthur," she said, trying to keep her voice authoritative. Trying to emulate Mordred.

Arthur just raised a hand at her, waving it back and forth in a gesture that she knew well. He was telling her to wait until he stopped laughing.

Well, that wouldn't do at all.

She muttered a word, and she saw Arthur stagger. It was only by planting his sword in a crack between the bricks that he managed to hold himself upright. That was fine. She hadn't really wanted to _hurt_ him. Not yet. She just needed him to sober himself up and treat her with the respect that she was due.

When he looked up at her, clutching his ribs, there were tears in his eyes. She wasn't sure whether they were from his laugher—it _had_ been rather hysterical—or perhaps her blow had been weightier than she'd intended. Or maybe he was beginning to realize where it was all going. But no matter.

"Arthur," she said again, remembering belatedly one of the few things that Mordred had said to her. That to remain the strong one, she ought to make her enemy speak first.

"Morgana," wheezed Arthur, nodding at her and steadying himself on the hilt of his sword. "Well struck. Good thing you have magic and didn't have to try to do it with reach of me. That would have been unfortunate."

Morgana glared, feeling like a child again, facing off with her surrogate brother in a trivial argument of some sort. "I also have a _brain_, brother."

Arthur wiped at his eyes, his body shuddering. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you're a _fool_, Arthur Pendragon," she said impressively.

Arthur just gave a half-smile. "Oh, I've no doubt of that, Morgana. Bit of a family trait, it seems."

Morgana wasn't sure how she ought to respond. She could always just say that Arthur must have gotten his idiocy from his mother's side of the family—Agravaine would have been a fair piece of evidence toward her argument—but she had nothing against Ygraine. From what she had heard, Ygraine had died because of Uther. She was another of Uther's victims. How could Morgana begrudge her when her fate was so like that of Morgana's? Besides, Uther was a fool, and she had no doubt that Arthur must have inherited it from him. But they shared a father. What could she say to counter such an accusation?

She settled for saying nothing at all, and Arthur grinned. She seriously considered attacking him again. She probably would have, she knew, but she recognized the look on his face. That smile. He didn't care. He knew what was going to happen. He just might as well be a reckless prat in the process. Arthur was dangerous when he was reckless. And he was just always a prat.

"What exactly is so funny, Arthur? Coming up with entertaining ways that I'm going to kill you?"

Arthur suddenly looked very relaxed, and she saw out of the corner of her eye as Mordred moved forward to stand beside her. Chancing a glance, she saw that he looked curious once more.

Arthur paid no mind to Mordred. "No, my lady. I was just thinking of how arrogance does not suit you."

"What do you mean by that?" she demanded, hoping that she sounded less childish than she felt.

"I mean," began Arthur, giving a single wet cough before continuing. "I mean that you ought to have something to back yourself up. Say what you will about me, but I'm a bloody _king._ I'm entitled to a bit of arrogance. But you, Morgana? You're a fool."

Morgana gritted her teeth. What was wrong with him? How could he think that provoking her was a particularly good idea just then?

"Have you lost your mind?" she asked. "You're going to _die,_ Arthur."

Arthur began to pace back and forth. Morgana considered yelling at him to stop moving, but then she saw what he was doing. He was walking back and forth in front of Merlin's body, almost…patrolling. She'd seen it before.

She'd been trekking through the woods, recently thwarted _again, _freezing and starved, when she'd come across a she-wolf and an alpha male. She'd almost fled before she'd realized that the male was injured, and that the piteous noises gurgling from his throat indicated that he was not long for the world. The she-wolf, rather than attacking Morgana as she'd feared, just got up from his side and began to pad back and forth in front of the him, protecting him as he died. Even as she moved on, Morgana had liked to imagine that the she-wolf would stay by his side, protecting him even as his life expired. She liked to believe that.

She wasn't sure how well Arthur would take to the comparison, considering that he'd be playing the role of the she-wolf in the story, but she thought that Merlin would have appreciated it. What the hell, she thought, feeling strange. Let him pace. There would be no one to keep vigil over _him._

Arthur was clearly oblivious to Morgana's great mercy. "And yet you haven't killed me. I wonder why."

"I have my reasons," she said, hoping that he wouldn't ask them of her. She had a feeling that they would sound awfully inadequate. And probably arrogant, as well, even to his ears. She felt that telling him in response to his accusation that it "took one to know one" might not strike appropriate terror into his heart. Arthur could be stupid like that.

"You want to know how we got here so quickly," he suggested. "You want to know why Merlin attacked you so quickly. You want to know why the hell I came when this was so obviously a trap."

Morgana shrugged. "I have my questions."

"Curiosity killed the cat, Morgana," warned Arthur.

"Satisfaction brought her back."

Arthur suddenly laughed again, the hysterical edge returning. "Did she also get struck by lightning?"

What?

"What?"

"Nothing," said Arthur, sobering himself so quickly that she wondered if he'd suffered a lot of head wounds since they'd last spoken and he'd _had_ to bring Merlin just as a handler. "Maybe you'll find out. I hope so."

"Then tell me."

"Oh, I know lots of things that you'd like for me to tell you."

"Like what?" asked Morgana, unable to help herself. But what did it matter? Arthur would be dead soon, and she and Mordred would be going their separate ways. So what if she made a fool of herself? No one would know, not really. And she _was_ curious.

Arthur shrugged and kept pacing, expanding his steps beyond Merlin's body now for whatever reason. She didn't really care. She just wanted him to talk.

"Why would I tell you? You can't kill me if you want to know and you don't know so you can't kill me for what you don't know. Want to know who taught me that lesson?"

"Not particularly," said Morgana truthfully, not wanting to spare the time to figure out what the hell he was babbling at her.

"I'll tell you anyway. It was Dragoon. Remember him? Dragoon. The Great!"

Morgana furrowed her brow. "That crazy old sorcerer? What about him? Wait, is he related to Emrys?"

Arthur began to laugh _again._ How was he _still_ so capable of annoying her? Morgana began to point her hand at him again threateningly, and he stopped abruptly. It was a nice feeling, knowing that she'd done that to him. She liked being feared.

"Nothing, Morgana, never mind about Dragoon. The Great. Besides, when I was laughing before, I was laughing at your…conversation with Mordred here."

She'd figured that he was just having a bizarre reaction to Merlin's rather sudden demise. Laughing at Mordred was a far less wise reaction for him to admit to. "What about it?"

"It just made me feel better about Merlin's and my communication problems. I thought that _Merlin_ kept me in the dark about things, but you, Morgana? Mordred hasn't told you a damn thing."

A chill ran through her, and she shivered. "Merlin is _dead."_

"I know he is," said Arthur, so forcefully that Morgana knew that he was more effected than he was letting on. "I _know_ he is, and there doesn't seem to be any maelstroms from hell brewing, so he might just stay that way this time."

She _so_ wanted to attack him. "What?"

Arthur kept pacing. Was he going faster, or was she imagining things? She shook her head, angry at herself for growing distracted. She'd been waiting for this encounter for _years._ Evaluating the speed of his tread had never been high on her list of priorities.

"Tell me something," said Arthur, casually. "Did Mordred promise to deliver me to you alive?"

"Yes!" she answered automatically.

"And Emrys?"

Morgana hesitated, sensing a trap but unable to see it. "Yes."

Arthur gave a grim sort of smile, and she closed her eyes for a moment. Her hesitation had not gone unnoticed. "Why do you think he attacked Merlin?"

Morgana set her jaw. "I think that he _killed_ Merlin because Merlin was going to attack me."

"How chivalrous of him."

She didn't like where this was going. "I'm sure that he had his reasons."

"You don't know?" asked Arthur, very quickly. "Honestly, I'm starting to think that Merlin and I were champion communicators."

"Arthur—"

Still pacing, Arthur averted his gaze from her to Mordred. "Hey, Mordred, tell me something. Is it true what Merlin told me about Druids and keeping their promises?"

Mordred didn't answer, and Morgana remembered something that she'd heard long ago. Druids felt that there was magic in all facets of life, she knew, and they believed that everything in life should be accorded due respect, especially words of bond from one man to another. Promises. When a Druid made a promise, she recalled, he kept it. She glanced at Mordred. Whatever he might have become, he had been raised by the Druids, and theirs was not an influence easily forgotten. His face was expressionless once more.

She shivered.

"No matter," she said, too loudly, as she turned back to Arthur. "You won't be around long enough for any of this to matter. Besides, our deal—mine and Mordred's—has not yet been completed. I have _nothing_ to worry about."

Arthur paced a bit farther. In the back of her mind, she felt a grim sort of respect for her half-brother. He may have run to Merlin's side without a second's thought, but he wasn't bothering to shake Merlin, to beg him to wake up, to weep over the corpse, to pretend that Merlin was just knocked out and would be okay in a moment or two. Merlin was dead, and Arthur had more important things to worry about.

Including, apparently, doing his best to irritate his sister. "He delivered you _me."_

Morgana crossed her arms over her chest. "That's _half."_

Arthur stopped smiling. He looked suddenly…dangerous, the impetuous recklessness vanished from his expression. "Is it?"

"Yes," she insisted, feeling more and more certain.

"And what of Merlin?"

She closed her eyes for a moment. He was beginning to dizzy her. She thought about telling him to stop moving, but to do it now would just make her look weak for allowing him to go on so far. "What _of_ him? He thwarted my plans time and time again, killed my sister, did his best to expose me in court, and _tried to poison me._ I wanted you and I wanted Emrys. Merlin here was just a bonus."

"It all goes back to that poisoning, doesn't it?" asked Arthur, and she opened her eyes, bewildered.

"For heaven's sake, Arthur, what are you _doing_?"

Arthur shrugged, an odd motion as he kept walking back and forth. "Stalling."

For one bizarre moment, she wanted to laugh. He was so different and still so very much as he had been as a child. Or was it just because they were together again? Or maybe because he knew that this was the end and he was just…reverting?

Oh, why hadn't he just gone and _fled_ like a normal person? He wasn't even doing something understandable and stupid and relatable like trying to drag Merlin's body away from the scene. Morgana could have understood _that. _She remembered when she'd thought her sister dead…she couldn't have let go of Morgause if she'd tried, as though clutching her to her own heart would give it the strength to keep on beating forever. Of course, she'd later found out that Morgause wasn't dead so much as she was _dying,_ but that was completely different. Morgause was so strong and it had been a rockfall. Her magic had kept her alive, at least for a while. Merlin had been taken down by _Mordred's_ magic. Morgana was surprised that there wasn't brain goo leaking out of the boy's ears. _She_ grew uncomfortable if she had to look Mordred straight in the eye for too long. Arthur was so stupid. He should have fled.

Not that she wouldn't have caught him. Not here. It would have just felt more sporting to kill Arthur by hunting him down. This would just be pathetic. Maybe she ought to give him a head start.

He should have run…

Why was she hesitating?

"You're a fool, Arthur Pendragon," she found herself saying again.

"We've been over that," he said cheerfully. "Oh, and Morgana?"

"_What,_ Arthur?"

"I really wish that you'd stop saying that Merlin tried to poison you."

Did Arthur _want_ her to kill him? That _was_ something of a sore spot.

"Why? He _did."_

"No, Morgana, he didn't," said Arthur snidely. "He _successfully_ poisoned you."

She snapped. With a roar, she shoved her hand forward and in Arthur's general direction. She felt the tingling warmth in her eyes. Immediately, there was a _bang_ that echoed around the courtyard, and she heard a series of crashes as a scar was gouged out in the rock of the wall behind Arthur, the rocks falling to the brick and scattering across the floor.

She missed him.

She _missed _him.

She should have known better than to try to aim this spell while angry.

At least she'd scared Arthur, she thought. He'd jumped about a foot in the air when he heard the crash, and she was pleased to see an expression of definite alarm in his face when he landed. He did not resume his pacing. Breathing hard, she found herself smiling. Maybe if she looked confident enough, he would think that her attack had been a warning shot rather than a complete miss.

Maybe Mordred would as well.

The attack, ineffective as it was, seemed to bring Arthur around to his senses. He glanced around the courtyard, and Morgana saw his eyes settle on the archway from which she had emerged, when Merlin had moved to attack her and Mordred had attacked him. She felt herself beginning to calm. Everything would go back to plan now. Arthur would run and she would run him down and Arthur would die and she could wait some more.

Arthur began to move again, edging his way along the perimeter of the sunken surface of the courtyard ground, his heels scraping the bottom of the two steps that led down into the pit, two feet below the floor of the rest of the castle. He seemed to be taking the long route to the exit. The long and _stupid_ route to the exit. Did he think that they couldn't _see_ him? He wasn't even moving quickly. It was like he wanted them to get him. Perhaps he was more stricken than she'd thought.

"Stop moving," she ordered.

Arthur just kept going, very slowly. "Or what? You'll decide to kill me? I would have thought that that matter was pretty well settled by now."

Morgana felt herself pivoting as Arthur moved, keeping her eyes locked on her brother. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Mordred was turning as well, but his eyes were not trained on Arthur.

He was watching Morgana.

"Arthur, _stop,_" she said, growing angry again.

"Stop me," said Arthur, taunting her. Taunting her!

"I can," she said, as bitingly as she could. "I _will."_

"I don't doubt it."

"Then _stop."_

Arthur stopped.

"Come on, Morgana," he said, sounding exasperated. "Have you sunk this low? Execution? Do me this one thing. Let me run. Let this be a hunt, not an execution. Don't stain your conscience further, sister. Let this be a kill. You have enough murders on yours hands. Morgana, let me run."

"I'll catch you," she said, her voice very small, meaning every word with all of her heart. "I know these hallways."

"Prove it," he said. He began moving again.

"You disappoint me, Arthur," she said, legitimately unhappy. He was taking all of the glory out of this. "You're _begging_ me to allow you to take the coward's run."

"Perhaps," said Arthur, stopping once more, his back to the archway, his magnificent sword clutched tightly in his right hand, ready to go down swinging. All he had to do was turn, and then he could do it, he could run…"Perhaps not."

She took a deep breath. This was a stupid plan, and she knew it. She just wasn't sure for which of the siblings it was stupider. Well, she thought, they would soon find out. She looked at him, her brother. She looked him straight in the eye, and all that she saw was him. She almost didn't feel how utterly trained upon her face were Mordred's eyes. The rest of the world might well have ceased to exist, save for the three of them. Each for another. This was _it._ She could feel it.

"Alright then," she told Arthur. "For the sake of our father, Arthur, I'll let you die with your back to the fight, disgracing yourself at the very end. For Uther, I will do that. But I must say, Arthur, cowardice ill suits you. You won't make it beyond the first hallway. You must know that. No, it doesn't suit you at all. You're not good at being weak. _Merlin,_ on the other hand…Merlin was always good at running away."

Arthur nodded, and the look of reckless abandon overtook him again. "He was, yes. Want to know what else he's good at?"

She could humor him. After all, these might well be his very last words.

"What's that?" Morgana asked indulgently.

Arthur smiled and sheathed his sword. "Lying really, _really_ still."

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**Thank you for reading. **** Please review! **


	20. Four

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine**.

They were all dead.

Her mother was dead. She didn't think of her mother very often. Somehow, in the grand scheme of how everyone in her life had wronged her, she never laid much blame at her mother's feet. She was sure that the affair with Uther hadn't been her idea. She'd been weak and vulnerable and lonely. Maybe Uther had even forced himself upon her. Yet she'd managed to love Morgana, the child who was not her husband's and who was the living proof of her infidelity. She'd loved Morgana, and she was dead.

Her father, too. Gorlois. He had loved them very much, and the memory of his goodness had been enough to sustain her for so long during her years in Camelot until one day when it couldn't anymore. If only he'd had the chance to raise her properly…but he'd been cuckolded by his best friend and then sent to his death. He was dead.

Her sister was dead. She had treated Morgana as a woman to be nurtured and loved and taught rather than a specimen that ought to be kept in the dark. She didn't make Morgana feel like she was impure or dirty and unnatural for her powers, and Morgause was the first and only person that Morgana had loved utterly and completely and without reservation. But Morgause was dead.

Even Agravaine was dead. He had been largely incompetent and as lacking in subtlety as he was in common sense, but he had been loyal. His loyalty had stemmed largely from desire, yes, but he had never wavered from her side. His support had been all but ineffectual, but he had been loyal and he had loved her. And he was dead.

Helios was dead. She had no delusions that he had loved her, but that was good. She hadn't wanted his love. She had wanted his _support,_ and she'd gotten it. He had been her equal, so much as a man lacking in her powers could possibly equate to her. He had worked with her for his own aims and he had known that she was working for her own. There were no secrets. She hadn't loved him, but she had valued him. He was dead too.

They were all dead. All those who had not turned on her because they were unwilling to look at things _her_ way and see that she was _right_ and who had remained true to her and remembered why she did what she did…they all died. They were her family and friends and allies and they were _good_ for her and they were dead, before their time and mercilessly and so very unfairly. It hadn't even taken much for most of them. Her mother, illness. Her father, betrayal. Morgause, subterfuge. Agravaine, his own foolishness. Helios, the tides of combat. They'd all taken their last stands of sorts, their final moments before meeting the deaths that rushed toward them. Their final moments were _final,_ as final moments tend to be, and they were all dead.

But then there was _Merlin,_ the boy who had poisoned her and killed her sister and interfered with just about everything that he could manage that did not involve him and he betrayed her and he betrayed _everyone_, and there he was standing alive and well and smiling at her. Did _nothing_ kill him? She had seen him defy death against all logic and all sense and all justice time and time again and now he had done it _again_ when no one else ever seemed to and she hated him for it.

Among other things.

He also talked too much.

"Hullo, Arthur!" said Merlin, picking his way around the perimeter of the courtyard, ignoring Morgana and Mordred as he approached the king.

Arthur was looking at him with a strange look on his face, an expression that seemed a combination of smugness and wariness that just made him look _ugly,_ in her opinion.

That wasn't the point. _Arthur_ wasn't the point just then. Merlin had gone and survived again and he didn't even look _sore_ and now he was hailing Arthur as though they were passing in a corridor. It was so _annoying._

It occurred to her that she probably ought to do something to stop Merlin from traipsing freely across the courtyard. It wasn't exactly the largest space that one would desire, should one have the urge to go traipsing, but Merlin's gait was so irritatingly casual that she could only call it 'traipsing.'

Also not the point, she told herself. She should have stopped him. She was vaguely surprised that Mordred hadn't, but he seemed to be leaving things to her. Still. It was _his_ spell that had apparently failed to do its job. Shouldn't _he_ have to be the one to deal with the stupid idiot who refused to die?

But Mordred didn't say anything and Morgana didn't do anything and they both stood uselessly as Merlin _traipsed_ his way toward Arthur. "Alright there, sire?" he asked heartily, stopping a few feet away from Arthur, facing him and keeping his back to Mordred and Morgana. She was distantly insulted.

She saw Arthur swallow hard before answering. "I'm fine, thanks."

Merlin nodded. "Did I miss anything important?"

Arthur's eyes flickered between the three sorcerers. "…Just that they're even worse at being open with each other than we are?"

Morgana glanced at Mordred, as uncertain about how things were meant to proceed as Arthur seemed to be. Unfortunately, Mordred did not seem inclined to make any particularly helpful moves. He was just staring stonily at Merlin, an expression of something awfully similar to alarm in his eyes. But this was Mordred. The "alarm" was probably just surprise, or even dismay. She couldn't blame him. For _Mordred_ to have apparently incorrectly cast a spell was mind boggling. Once again, Merlin was only surviving because of the errors of bigger and better people than himself.

She only hoped that Mordred would take his anger out on Arthur or Merlin rather than on...anyone else.

Merlin didn't seem very concerned. "How do you mean?"

Arthur stared at him for a moment, clearly wondering what the hell was going on and why the hell they weren't either running away or trying to kill her or doing _something_ other than having a mild conversation about recent events. Merlin just waited expectantly for an answer.

"…She doesn't know," said Arthur slowly.

"Know what?"

Arthur took a few steps toward Merlin. "Merlin, she doesn't _know," _he said significantly.

For the first time, Merlin looked surprised. "Are you sure?"

"Yep."

From what she could see of Merlin's profile, he was unconvinced. She wasn't sure whether she should be pleased to see that, miraculous recoveries aside, they didn't seem to have any elaborate and well-choreographed plans for defeating her, satisfied that Merlin didn't seem to be willing to take Arthur on his word, or just annoyed because now Arthur knew something that she didn't know. _Arthur_, of all people.

This was all too much for her. It was too surreal. They might as well have been back in the Camelot council room, discussing what Arthur wanted for lunch and the realistic unlikelihood that Merlin would take the initiative to fetch it. They didn't even seem properly afraid of her!

"If you've quite finished!" she said loudly. Merlin turned around to face her, looking mildly amused. She supposed that she might have chosen to open the conversation with a phrase slightly less…primly indignant.

Stupid Merlin. It was all his fault.

"Apologies, Morgana," said Merlin, sidestepping to his left until he almost blocked Arthur from view. Now _Merlin_ was the she-wolf, she supposed. "I forgot my manners."

"I'm used to it," she snapped, sarcasm dripping from each syllable. "I didn't even get a proper hello before you decided that you would go ahead and attack me."

Merlin snorted. "Well, we all saw how well that went for me."

Morgana smiled. "I see that you're not trying again."

Merlin shrugged. "Yet. Patience is a virtue, Morgana. It's nice to see you, by the way. As lovely as ever."

She just glared. Merlin turned to Mordred. "Why so silent, friend? Surprised to see me up and about?"

Mordred didn't answer, and Merlin smiled a very unpleasant smile. "I bet you are."

Mordred didn't move.

"Well," said Morgana, trying to seize control of the situation. "I don't know how you managed it, but you're not dead. Well done."

"Thanks. I put a lot of effort into it."

"You needn't die, you know," she said conversationally. "You have magic. You're one of _us._ Arthur…none of our kind belong by his side. He'll pay for his crimes, yes. As he should. You needn't die for them as well."

Merlin snorted again. "Really, Morgana? You're trying to seduce me to the murderous side of magic by trying to get _me _to turn on _Arthur_? Go back in time and ask me eight years ago. _Then_ you might have had a shot. Nowdays, you would have had better luck trying to straight out seduce me like a normal person. I've gone through too much hell sticking by Arthur's side to give up now."

Morgana narrowed her eyes. She was no normal person. "So, what, now that you're properly alive again, you intend to put up a fight? Take on myself and Mordred for the sake of Arthur? He's not _that_ lovable."

"I was always alive," he said lightly. "What _is_ it with Pendragons and thinking that I'm dead?"

"Do _not_ call me 'Pendragon," she snarled, not particularly offended by the association but having the strange urge to do a bit of snarling. She had to vent somehow. "I'm no Pendragon."

Merlin smiled again. She hadn't known that he was capable of looking so unpleasant. "Of course not," he said lightly. "You're a bastard."

She couldn't speak for a moment, stung. She didn't understand why it had hurt for her to hear. While the whole basis for her claim to the throne lay in the fact that she was Uther's daughter and eldest child, there was no way that she could try to twist history to make herself legitimate. She was Uther's daughter to a woman that was not his wife. If she was going to claim royalty, she had to be a bastard. That's how it was. And so what? She wouldn't let on that it bothered her to hear it said aloud, even if it was said so patronizingly as had Merlin. She wouldn't dignify him with a response. So _what_ if she was a bastard?

"So are you," she muttered sullenly.

Merlin shrugged. "I know."

She bit her lip, angry and sad and confused all at once. This was not the time for her to begin _relating_ with him. How did he _do _this? No wonder he'd managed to remain by Arthur's side. He just seemed so damn forgivable_._

Stupid Merlin.

She looked at Mordred. He didn't move.

She looked at Arthur. He looked very uncomfortable and was pointedly avoiding look at either herself or Merlin. After a moment, she realized that Arthur didn't like listening to other people talking about their personal issues so cavalierly in front of him. He was uncomfortable with all of the sharing of _feelings_ that was going on_._

She laughed. She couldn't help it. He was still so _Arthur_ sometimes.

"So, you were always alive," she said, pulling herself back to the situation at hand.

Merlin nodded. "I was always alive. People don't come back from the dead, Morgana. It just so happens that some of us are _really_ hard to kill."

"Are you so sure of that, Merlin? You intend to actually up a fight here? You and _Arthur_ against myself and _Mordred?"_

He shook his head. "I don't think so, no. Arthur's been through enough today, wouldn't you say? I think that I'll handle this one on my own."

He raised his right hand and pointed it at her.

She laughed again, incredulous. "You're as big a fool as I remember, Merlin. Even if you're a fool who seems strangely incapable of dying and staying _dead_ like a normal person. You intend to fight us _both?_ At once?"

"Well, I'd rather _not._ I don't suppose that I could persuade you to go one at a time?"

She grinned. "I don't suppose that you could, no."

Actually, her "supposing" was not at all an informed supposition. For all that she knew, Mordred would insist that Merlin face only one at a time. It _did_ seem the more sporting option, but she was tired of Merlin escaping death. If they were going to do this, they would do it right. And thoroughly.

Merlin heaved a sigh and shrugged.

"Fine," he said, sounding resigned. He then swung his right arm away from Morgana and pointed it at Mordred. Raising his left, he aimed it at Morgana. One arm extended at each of his two opponents, he raised his eyebrows. "We'll do it your way."

A shiver ran down her spine, and she found herself falling back a few steps. She couldn't help it. Merlin was being so odd. So…confident. It was unnerving. And something seemed to be radiating off of him. She wasn't sure what it was, but it occurred to her that this was the first time that she was facing the real Merlin, the Merlin who was not posing as an idiot servant, the Merlin who had powers—no matter how negligible—and who now had the freedom to use them before others. That was what was different, she thought. Merlin was just being all of himself. That's what it was.

But why was it so…eerie?

She looked at Merlin and shivered again. There was a hardness behind his eyes, a certainty. Determination. Determination, and _hatred, _entwined together in those blue eyes of his as he looked at her. When he averted them to the ground, she was glad for just a moment that she did not have to see herself reflected in them. After that moment, however, she realized that she rather preferred seeing where he _was_ looking than having to wonder.

She took another step back.

Suddenly, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Looking to the side, she saw that Mordred had finally moved. He was closer to her now than he had been since he had been a child. Since he had become a young man, he'd kept his distance…had he always been shorter than she was, all this time?

"Do not be fooled, Morgana," said Mordred, his voice flat. His hand was heavy on her shoulder, squeezing only the tiniest bit.

"What do you mean?" she whispered, keeping her voice low in the hopes that it would not sound quite so quavery as it was.

"He is trying to take advantage of your uncertainty," he answered, not bothering to keep his voice low. When she looked at his face, she saw that he was looking not at her but at Merlin. "He was not conscious the entire time that he was on the ground. He is not well. Do not fear his tricks, Morgana. Merlin is weaker than he appears."

He _did_ look paler than she remembered. He had never exactly been a bronze specimen of rugged masculinity, but there was always a little bit of color. And he did look rather wobbly. Of course, she reminded herself, it was possible that Merlin always wobbled when he stood still. He _did_ tend to fall over a lot, and it wasn't like she'd spent a great deal of her time in Camelot just watching him stand still. Still, he did look distinctly shaky, and from the concerned looks that she caught Arthur throwing at Merlin from time to time, it was not just his typical ungainliness. She inhaled deeply. How wonderful would it be if all of his accumulated near-death experiences caught up with him all at once and he just…keeled over?

As was his custom, Merlin immediately spoiled her hopes. As soon as Mordred stopped speaking, his head shot up, and he looked more alert than ever.

"What did you just call me?" he asked, looking at Mordred.

Mordred scowled, and Morgana got another shiver as she heard him answer. "I need not repeat myself for the likes of you."

Merlin stood up tall and straightened his shoulders, looking interested. "'Merlin,' you called me."

"That _is_ your given name."

"Not by you," countered Merlin, his face beginning to flush with something that looked awfully like excitement. "No, _you_ don't call me 'Merlin.' We went over this not half an hour ago."

"I need not explain myself," reiterated Mordred, his voice going up an octave. Morgana realized with a shock that he was beginning to sound like the teenage boy that he was. It didn't feel like a very good sign.

Especially since Merlin seemed to be growing more delighted as Mordred's scowl grew more and more pronounced.

"I'll tell you what, Mordred," said Merlin. "You call me by my other name, and I'll let you have a free shot at Arthur."

"What?"

Merlin waved Arthur's surprised protest aside. "I mean it. Free shot. I won't try to stop you or interfere or anything. Hell, I'll get out of your way if that would make it easier for you."

"_What?"_

"Trust me, Arthur," Merlin said over his shoulder before returning his focus to Mordred. "Go on, Mordred. Say my name, and you can have your free shot. Otherwise..."

"Merlin!"

Merlin finally looked annoyed. "Oh, settle _down_, Arthur!"

"Are you kidding me with this?"

Mordred just glared and remained silent, seemingly unaffected by Merlin's offer and Arthur's less than enthusiastic reaction. She wished that she could say the same. She may not have been around them very much in recent years, but their "banter" that everyone seemed to find _so _endearing could just be extremely _irritating_.

She decided that it was time that she stepped in. _Someone_ had to take control of the situation, and who else of the four of them was more suited?

"Merlin," she said, her voice lofty and dignified. "Your mind-boggling ability to keep coming back aside, you have _nothing_ to hold over Mordred. He'll kill Arthur if he so chooses. He'll kill _you_ if he so chooses. What difference could a 'free shot' from _you_ possibly make?"

Merlin shrugged innocently. "I just want him to call me by my other name. What's the harm in that?"

"_I_ have some names that I'd like to call you," she grumbled, scowling at him, her brow so deliberately furrowed that she knew that she'd give herself a headache if she kept it up. She really hated him sometimes.

Then, Merlin's entire body began to shake, and she saw him double over. He was _laughing._

"Why does everyone keep _doing_ that?" she yelled to the sky, forgetting herself in frustration.

"Told you," said Arthur, looking down at Merlin.

This was unfair. This was _absolutely _unfair, and she didn't have to take it. She was a priestess of the Old Religion. She deserved _respect,_ not this inexplicable laughter. She almost suspected that they'd worked this out ahead of time to laugh at her for no perceivable reason just to frustrate her, but they hadn't spoke to one another. She and Mordred might have actually noticed that Merlin wasn't quite so dead as they'd hoped if he had started speaking with Arthur.

It didn't matter why they were laughing. Why should it? _They_ didn't matter, but they owed her respect. She took several deep breaths, trying to collect herself before she did something foolish. She couldn't lose control now.

Then, in a fit of what was either very good or very bad timing, Merlin looked up and met her eyes, his as merry as hers were murderous.

So, she snapped. Wheeling backward, she drew back her fist and began to swing it forward, as though she was throwing a particularly heavy stone. The words were already beginning to stream from her lips before her arm was even past her ear.

Merlin noticed. He made a floppily halfhearted gesture with his hand, and she would have believed that he was just attempting the swat away a particularly irksome fly if she had not seen his eyes glow golden.

Before she knew what was happened, she was lying on her back, spine tingling and skull throbbing from the force with which she'd been thrown to the ground. She hadn't skidded or slid or even lost her footing. She'd just…gone down, as though the broken white brick floor had swung up to slap her from behind. She couldn't even recall falling. She'd been…pulled.

When she pushed herself up on her elbows and looked at Merlin, she was breathing hard.

"I'm sorry, Morgana," said Merlin, sounding genuinely apologetic as he ceased his laughter. He gestured for her to stand. As she climbed to her feet, trying to retain what little dignity was left to her, she saw that Arthur had his hand on the hilt of his sword again, although he had not risked drawing it and calling attention to himself.

Mordred hadn't moved at all.

"It's not fair that you should have to be in the dark about this," Merlin continued. "And it's certainly not fair that you haven't been told. Still, I'm surprised that you haven't put it all together yet."

Morgana rubbed the back of her head. "Put _what_ all together?"

"Emrys," intoned Merlin, as though she should have known exactly what he was talking about.

"You know who Emrys is?" she asked dully, too doubtful to bother to care very much about what he'd have to say.

"I do," he said, so brightly that she found herself wondering if maybe she ought to listen to him.

Stupid Merlin.

"Does _everyone_ know who he is?"

"Everyone but you, it seems."

"Merlin…"

"Come on, Morgana," he urged. "Put it together. You must have heard the rumors."

For the first time in years, she found that she almost didn't care. She really wanted to sit down. "What rumors."

"Tell me, Morgana," said Merlin pleasantly. "How long have you been staying with out mutual friend here?"

He nodded at Mordred.

"Long enough," she said guardedly.

"And he promised you something."

She stared at him.

Merlin rolled his eyes. "Humor me. I missed a few things while I was on the ground. Pretending to be dead can take a toll on effective eavesdropping."

She took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. She didn't want to attack him again. "He promised that I'd—_we'd—_learned the identity of Emrys if I aided him."

Merlin laughed again, although thankfully with less gusto than previously. "He got the better part of that deal," he said, sounding honestly amused. "He's known the identity of Emrys since he was a little boy. He knew who Emrys was before _Emrys_ did. He could have told you anytime he wanted."

"Who then?" she asked, speaking before she had to acknowledge how easily she would be able to accept Merlin's claim as accurate.

Merlin gave a strange smile and didn't say anything.

He looked at her.

He looked at her, and Morgana understood.

"Oh, come _on,"_ she said, exasperated.

He raised his eyebrows, just a little bit.

"I'm not an _idiot,_ Merlin," she said, raising her own eyebrows in mockery.

He didn't say anything at all.

Morgana found herself laughing, desperately. "Come on! You're trying to tell me that _you're_ Emrys? You, _Merlin?"_

"A bit anti-climactic, isn't it, Morgana?"

There was a pause as they stared at each other. Then she scoffed, half ashamed of herself for entertaining the thought. It was too ridiculous. She was able to deal with a lot of coincidences in her life, but this would have just been too much of one for her taste.

"You lie."

"Would you care to put that theory to the test?" he asked, waving his hand at her in a gesture that she understood. If he thought that she would just stand idly by while he did again what he did before to knock her to the ground, he had another thing coming. That had _hurt._

"You lie," she repeated.

"Why would I lie about this?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Because you're _annoying,"_ she informed him honestly. It seemed plausible.

Merlin laughed. "The two aren't mutually exclusive."

She crossed her own arms over her chest. "You don't _look_ like Emrys."

"I don't look like a lot of things that I am. I made it nearly ten years without anyone so much as _suspecting_ that I was a sorcerer, and I made a lot of stupid mistakes along the way that should have had me caught," Merlin retorted reasonably, before adding, "Sorry to bring that up, Arthur. It was relevant."

Arthur snorted from somewhere behind Merlin. Morgana ignored him. She didn't want to look away from Merlin, because if she looked away, he would give away his tell and she would know that he was lying and then they could all blast each other to pieces to their hearts' content and it would all be as it was meant to be.

"So you're trying to tell me that _you're_ my destiny and my doom?" she asked.

Merlin glanced from Morgana to the motionless Mordred, then back again. "Yes."

Something was wrong. He didn't understand something. This was good.

"And I'm _your_ destiny and doom?" she pressed.

A shadow passed over Merlin's face. Confusion. Uncertainty. Indecision. For the first time, he looked like he wasn't so sure of himself. It was nice.

The moment passed quickly, however, and Merlin's mask of confidence slipped back into place. "You're half right, Morgana."

"How do you mean?"

"Tell me something, my lady," he said, his voice straining beneath the casualness. "Do you know what _Emrys_ means, in the old tongue?"

She didn't, but Merlin didn't have to know that.

"How do you know the old tongue?" she deflected.

Merlin waved the protest away, and she jumped reflexively at the motion. Fortunately, Merlin didn't seem to have noticed. "Let's just say that I was born fluent. Do you know what it means?"

Morgana gave up and shook her head. What the hell, she thought. She wanted to know, and it seemed like Mordred wasn't likely to tell her anything that she particularly wanted to know. She may as well hear it from someone.

"It means _immortal,_ Morgana," said Merlin. "_Immortal._ So you may be my destiny, my lady, but you will never be my doom."

Over Merlin's shoulder, she saw Arthur give a nervous glance at his friend, believing.

It was enough for Morgana.

She thought about it.

No. No. _No._ Merlin was not Emrys. That was not possible. She thought of when she had encountered Emrys for the first time, back in her hovel when she had infested Merlin with the Fommoroh. Emrys had come to kill the mother creature. How had he known? She'd never thought of it before. How could he have known about the creature in Merlin's neck? Merlin himself was oblivious to it while it was active in him, and Arthur was oblivious to almost everything. But…what if it had gone into hibernation? Or failed, even for a moment? Merlin would have known, and Merlin had been to her hovel, he could have remembered the way. Could Merlin had found Emrys and told him everything that he needed to know to face off with Morgana?

_Not mutually exclusive,_ she thought, beginning to grow nervous. And then there was Dragoon, Emrys'…brother? They had looked so similar, but their behavior could not have been more different. Dragoon had inexplicably involved himself in the love life of Arthur and Guinevere—she still wasn't entirely sure how _that_ had worked out—whereas Emrys had taken it upon himself to save Arthur's servant and, correspondingly, Arthur. Dragoon had been goofy, for lack of a better word. Emrys had been…sinister, in his own way.

_Not mutually exclusive…_

Emrys had made an appearance in the castle, on the night before Arthur and his cavalry had shown up with that new sword of his to retake the kingdom. They had lost the old sorcerer, despite his advanced age and weak body, and not just because he was powerful. He'd had a knowledge of the geography of the castle that somehow hadn't struck her as odd at the time. Nothing else had gone wrong that night, but the next day, when she'd gone to strike down her brother, her magic had failed her. Merlin had been in the room…

_Born fluent…_

Merlin survived _everything._ He should have died a thousand times over, from dangerous situations and attacks and injuries, but he still managed to survive. Even today, with Mordred's attack…even _Mordred_ seemed shocked that Merlin was alive, and Mordred was rarely shocked when it came to his own magic.

_Emrys means immortal…_

And then there was Arthur, who should have been dead even more times than Merlin. So many of his unlikely instances of death-defying had occurred _before_ she'd been told of Emrys. Emrys couldn't have been any sort of _recent_ addition to Arthur's circle of protectors. And then there was Arthur's quest to the lands of the Fisher King, where he should have died long before he'd gotten within a hundred feet of the damn trident. Merlin had been mysteriously missing from Camelot during Arthur's absence…and Arthur had come back healthy. Arthur had survived the bite of the Questing Beast. Arthur always managed to retake the citadel from the various usurpers. Arthur had a _magic sword._ Arthur was never alone...Friends of Merlin tended to survive despite all odds. Enemies of Merlin tended to…not.

_My destiny and my doom…_

She looked up at him, horrified. He stood there, disheveled and skinny and clumsy and wearing the same clothes that he'd been wearing for the past decade, unimposing and unintimidating and unintelligent and unlikely. He stood there, _alive._ He stood there…

"Oh, no," she whispered.

Merlin grinned.

"Surprise."

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**Thank you for reading. Please review!**


	21. Three

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine**.

He had no idea what was going on.

It wasn't the greatest feeling. He was little more than a spectator at a tourney in which the participants were playing a game with which he was completely unfamiliar and in which there were no weapons or horses and in which the participants seemed bound and determined to speak as vaguely as was physically possible to one another-when they weren't doing so in an entirely different language. Normally, he would have been annoyed and bored by such a proceeding. Today, however, he was in the unique position of being a spectator whose very life hung in the balance of whatever was happening.

Not that there was a whole lot of spectating for him to have done thus far. The epic magical battle that he'd been imagining from Merlin's grim predictions and his memories of Morgana's volatile hatred was so far little more than each of the three sorcerers taunting each other with the information that the others didn't have. He assumed that the pinching and name-calling portion was shortly to follow.

He shook his head. This was no time for him to get snippy. He had to remember who he was dealing with. While the trio did not look particularly imposing—a woman in a tattered dress and what looked very much like twigs in her hair, a skinny man covered in dirt, and a boy who looked a few months shy of completed puberty—they could probably tear down the castle brick by brick if they were so inclined. With a gesture like that of a man batting away a fly—a gesture so halfhearted that Arthur was fairly certain that the fly would have been the victor in the encounter—Morgana had toppled right over, as though her feet were hinges and she'd been given an almighty push backward. No, he imagined that their version of pinching and name-calling was a bit more dangerous than it was for normal people.

Although, he thought, there _had_ been some name calling, depending on how you looked at it. A great deal was being made of the whole Merlin-is-Emrys scenario. When it had become obvious thatMorgana was finally going to take Merlin on his word, she had looked about ready to fall over again. Previously, Arthur had assumed that Morgana had just been obsessed with figuring out the identity of the sorcerer about whom she'd heard stories. After all, she lived in exile, friendless and alone. She had to have _something_ to occupy her time. But the look on her face as she realized…he wondered if there was more to Merlin being "Emrys" than he'd been led to believe.

Not that any of them were likely to tell him. It seemed sometimes like the more powerful the sorcerer, the more likely he or she would be to be infuriatingly unhelpful when it came to the sharing of essential knowledge. No wonder Uther had managed to stamp them all out.

Arthur closed his eyes, horrified at himself. Sympathizing with the rationale behind the _Purge,_ even if only casually and for a moment…he couldn't let himself go down that route. He had to remember that for every Morgana, there was a Gaius. For every Mordred, there was a Merlin. As long as he let matters run their course, there could be balance again.

It would help if the sorcerers would just stop trying to _kill_ him.

When he opened his eyes, he caught Mordred looking at him and shivered. Arthur didn't really have much of a clue of who Mordred was. He had a dim memory of a frightened little boy who he had helped to escape from Camelot and who he had then returned to the Druids. What on earth did Mordred have to do with any of this? After Morgana had emerged and as soon as he'd felt Merlin's chest rising, he'd taken a moment to breathe and think and find that he figured that it had been Morgana who had masterminded this whole plot and that Mordred was her underling of sorts. He _was_ younger than she…

But now, watching the interactions of the three sorcerers, he was beginning to have doubts. Morgana kept glancing over at Mordred as though she was looking for his approval and even Merlin seemed warier of the boy than he was of Morgana. Merlin certainly seemed keener to keep himself between Mordred and Arthur than between Morgana and Arthur. Plus, he thought, when Merlin had declared that he would happily take on both of his opponents at the same time, Arthur had seen Merlin deliberately rearrange his posture so that he could keep Mordred at his _right_ hand. Mordred must have been the greater threat. Arthur just didn't understand.

It wasn't as though not understanding something magical was a new sensation for him. The feeling of being absolutely out of his element was almost comforting in its familiarity by this point in the quest. He was accustomed to not understanding magic. He could just almost always understand the _universal_ aspects of a conflict, the human variables, the motivations. He could understand _why_ a person hated him. Usually it was because someone craved his power or envied his position or hated Uther so much that revenge on his son would have to do or he had killed someone who he maybe should not have killed. He could even understand why Morgana could have come to hate him so much. But Mordred…what had he ever done to Mordred?

Okay, _yes,_ he conceded, he _had_ on many separate occasions slaughtered large groups of his people, and _yes, _he had been known to steal priceless artifacts from the Druids. Still, he'd never wronged Mordred personally. Besides, he'd always thought that Druids didn't believe in seeking revenge. Hell, they didn't even fight back when he and his men would raid their camps in years past. Mordred was undeniably a druid. Why was he so different? Why would he have wanted to bring Arthur out here like this?

Arthur could stand to be hated. It came with the job. Plenty of people wanted to kill him. He was fine with that. He just wished that, this time, he could understand why.

He shook himself. This was not the time for him to start sulking about his lack of universal popularity. It didn't matter why Mordred wanted him dead. All that mattered was that Mordred seemed bound and determined to achieve his goal. Just because he had no idea what was going on didn't mean that he shouldn't keep his eyes open and see what he could figure out.

There didn't seem to be a whole lot to figure out just then. No one was speaking. Mordred was throwing an exceptionally evil version of an evil eye in Merlin's direction, Morgana was staring at the ground, and Merlin kept looking from one to the other. Arthur had the impression that he too was waiting for something to happen.

Almost without realizing that he was doing it, he unsheathed Excalibur. The sword felt good in his hand. It was something solid and sharp and dangerous and _real_, calling to mind battles and conflicts that required weaponry. He liked weaponry. He always felt more useful with a sword in his hand, and watching three sorcerers arguing like this felt far too intangible for his taste. Arthur could only observe and guess, and it was all very irritating. All of this thinking about all of these things that he knew nothing about was beginning to give him a headache.

He was glad that he had not spoken aloud and given Merlin the satisfaction of hearing that Arthur was finally managing to give himself a headache by thinking too hard. But honestly, he thought crossly, how could he _not?_ Mordred did this, Morgana did that, Mordred and Morgana did this together, Merlin did that alone, Merlin did that to Morgana, Merlin did this to Mordred, Mordred did that to Morgana, Morgana said this to Mordred…it was all beginning to jumble together. He just didn't see what was happening. Besides, all of the magical alliteration was getting annoying. Mordred and Morgana and…he supposed that he ought to just be glad that Merlin wasn't called Morlin.

"Good thing Morgause isn't here," he muttered to himself.

Although it would have made _sense_ for Morgause to be present, were she not dead. She was Morgana's sister-although in the light of the news of Morgana's paternity, he wasn't entirely sure that their sisterhood hadn't become more of a state of being than a biological fact-and they always seemed to have an unusually fond relationship. Plus, Morgause was evil. She would have fit right in. Merlin, Mordred, Morgana, Morgause...they all made sense. They were sorcerers, and they understood each other. Arthur's name didn't even start with _M._

"Why am I here?" he asked suddenly, and all three heads swiveled to look at him. Bizarrely, he felt himself beginning to blush. It was ridiculous. Why should _he_ feel awkward? This whole scheme had been centered on _him._ The least that they could do is to include him in the conversation. Or _have_ a conversation rather than just glaring at one another. He wasn't a child.

Morgana was the one to answer. "You know why you're here, Arthur."

"I don't. I really, really don't," he answered honestly, for the first time in many years grateful to his half sister.

"You have something that belongs to me," she said. "I've asked nicely—"

"You have _not," _ interrupted Merlin, coming to life as well now that conversation was beginning. Morgana ignored him.

"I've asked nicely," she continued doggedly. "But you've refused to give it up. So if you have to die for me to get what I'm owed, so be it."

Arthur clenched his fist around Excalibur. "You're owed _nothing."_

"Is that so, brother? Remind me again, how old are you?" she asked, condescension in every syllable.

His fingers fit perfectly into the minute grooves in the hilt. "That has nothing to do with it."

"That has _everything _to do with it," she spat.

The metal was cool to his touch.

"Go on then, Morgana," he retorted. "Go on. Kill me. Do whatever you like to me. You won't have my throne."

"Oh, I'll have it."

"You will _not,"_ said Arthur quietly. "Have you honestly never put any thought into this? Merlin had it right when he said that you were a…that you don't have a legitimate claim to my throne. Even if you were my true blood sister, you still wouldn't have been first in line. You _know_ that, Morgana."

"This is your fault."

"You cannot begrudge me my gender," said Arthur firmly. If one of them was going to die, he would have liked to at least have resolved _this_ matter. "Neither of us had any say in _that_ matter."

Morgana shook her head. "It makes no difference. With you dead, Camelot will need a queen. Surname aside, _I_ have royal blood. Blood matters."

"Camelot has a queen."

"Come on, Arthur!" she scoffed, smiling. "Camelot has a peasant woman playing dress-up in my leftover jewels. Do you think that the people will accept as their rightful ruler a woman with no noble heritage and no proper breeding and no _right?_ They may take her as queen consort right now, Arthur, but they'll never accept her as their ruler. _You_ know that."

"Maybe not," he said. "But they will accept her as queen _regent."_

"What does _that_ mean?" she asked, sounding annoyed.

"What do you think it means?" countered Arthur, looking her straight in the eye.

Morgana looked stricken, and Arthur was vindictively pleased. _Good_, he thought. Let her see her plans falling apart. Let her see it all crumble to pieces. Let her see that it never would have worked. Let her see that life goes _on. _And please_,_ he thought desperately, _please_ let Merlin keep his mouth shut.

Daring to glance at him, he saw that Merlin's face was impassive, and he remained silent as he watched what little blood remained drain from Morgana's face. Arthur breathed. Merlin understood. The less that either of them said, the better.

Mordred was less cooperative.

"He lies, Morgana," said the boy, not bothering to look at her. Arthur fought to keep his expression blank. "He lies."

"I do not," said Arthur firmly. His palm was hot against the coolness of Excalibur.

"How do you know?" asked Morgana, turning to Mordred.

"It is written thusly."

Arthur felt himself growing angry. He was so sick of this. "Really? Is it written? _This_ is written? It is specifically written somewhere, wherever the hell these things are written, that on this day, in this place, I will be lying? About _this? _No, I don't think so. You may have Morgana scared and you may have Merlin listening, but I sure as hell am not going to stand here and buy into everything that you say just because you follow it up with 'it is written.'"

He was breathing heavily as he finished speaking, feeling spent and strangely satisfied. Now he just had to wait.

He didn't know what exactly he expected the boy to say. A denial? An explanation? An admission? A spell that would explode his head?

But it wasn't Mordred who spoke.

"Arthur," said Merlin quietly, turning and stepping closer to him. "Arthur, leave it be."

"Leave _what_ be?" asked Arthur suspiciously, wishing that Merlin would keep his eyes on the two enemy sorcerers. Although they did seem strangely willing to allow them a private conversation in the middle of everything. Sorcerers, he thought. They may have been good and getting things done without actually having to _do _them, but their skills in strategizing left a great deal to be desired. It would have been like trying to call for a pause while in the middle of a melee, except instead of chopping each other's heads off at the very idea of taking a _break,_ they were all accommodating each other.

He would not have made a very good sorcerer, Arthur mused. For all that Mordred and Morgana knew, they were discussing how they were going to be killing them!

Merlin sighed. "Nothing good will come of this."

Arthur shook his head, bringing himself back to the scene. "So, I can't call him a liar, but he can call _me_ a liar?"

"Well, you _are_ lying," Merlin pointed out.

"Merlin!"hissed Arthur, appalled.

"It was a good try, Arthur, but you weren't fooling anyone," said Merlin. "If you were telling the truth, there's no way that you would have left her behind. You probably wouldn't have wanted to let her out of your sight. No, you weren't fooling anyone. Well, maybe Morgana, but that's really anything to boast of."

"He didn't _know," _Arthur insisted desperately. "Neither do you, for that matter. I don't tell you everything."

Merlin just rolled his eyes. "Sometimes, it's the things that you don't tell me that I know best."

He really wished that the damn battle would commence already. He was about ready to attack Merlin himself.

"For heaven's sake, I hate sorcerers," Arthur muttered. "That doesn't even make _sense,_ Merlin."

"Listen, Arthur," said Merlin, suddenly sounding curt. "You need to start being careful of what you say to him."

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. He glanced toward Mordred and Morgana. They showed no indication that they were planning on attacking while he and Merlin were distracted. Which was just _ridiculous._

"Because you're being so cautious and polite?" he asked, turning back to Merlin.

"I'm different."

"Well, I know _that," _said Arthur, and Merlin scowled.

"We can hear you, you know," called out Morgana in an annoyingly sing-song voice.

Arthur swore, but Merlin just rolled his eyes.

"Morgana's a freak of nature who will never become queen and needs to brush her hair before birds begin to land in it," he said, his voice just as loud as it had been. Morgana didn't respond.

"See?" said Merlin, shrugging. "Don't worry about it. She was bluffing."

Arthur almost smiled. "That wasn't a very nice thing to say."

Merlin had his fingers through his hair. "If Morgana's a freak of nature, Arthur, then I'm an even bigger one. I was just trying to get a rise out of her, see if she really could hear us. Although I meant it about the hair."

He looked over Merlin's shoulder at his half-sister. She was scowling, but she seemed to spend a lot of her time scowling whenever she was in their presence. Scowling or smirking. Merlin was right. Morgana was bluffing.

"But that doesn't matter right now. What I'm trying to tell you is that I'm different to _him._ Mordred is much more skilled with the gift of prophecy than I am. He's had training and teachers and presumably doesn't have a nervous breakdown every time that he has to handle a crystal. And no, that one in the forest doesn't count. He's…he's good with prophecy, Arthur, and he _believes."_

Something about that didn't sound right.

"And you _don't _believe?"

Merlin shook his head. "That's not the point. The point is that there are prophecies about you that he knows and believes and he won't stop until he fulfills them. His grudge is against _me,_ but he's been course-correcting everything else. I think that he's turned killing you into his revenge on me. He…okay, listen. He hates me because of something that happened. He hates you because it was written that he must."

"I don't understand," said Arthur, for what seemed like the thousandth time. He felt that if things kept on the way that they were, his lack of understanding just ought to be implied as a given whenever they had a conversation about magic.

"I know, and I'm sorry," said Merlin, sounding genuinely regretful. "Just know that I'm going to try to change things."

"Can you do that?" Arthur asked, his voice low. "The things that 'are written…' Can you change them?"

He saw Merlin swallow hard. "I can try."

"Have you tried in the past?" he asked.

Merlin just looked at him. It was enough.

"Did it work?" Arthur knew the answer. It was evident in Merlin's eyes, in how he kept repositioning himself every time that Arthur moved to keep himself between the sorcerers and the king, in how he seemed to have abandoned all restraint in his conversations with Morgana and Mordred, in how Merlin seemed to be operating on the fly, taking everything step by step and not daring to plan ahead. Arthur knew the answer. He just needed to hear it.

"Arthur…"

"Merlin."

Merlin took a deep breath. "Well, there's a first time for everything."

Arthur stared at him. "I'm very glad that they couldn't hear you say that."

"I _heard_ that," called Morgana with impeccable timing.

"What did I _just _say?" Arthur called back.

There was a pause. "I don't want to dirty my mouth with your words."

"Watch your tongue, Morgana," warned Merlin. "I don't think that you want to hear that words that will come out of _my_ mouth."

"Was that a _threat?"_

"Do you really need clarification for that?"

"I just find it hard to believe that you would _dare_ threaten me," she responded impressively.

"Really?" asked Arthur incredulously, his fear beginning to ebb away despite the urgency of the situation and the very serious danger that he was in. He re-sheathed Excalibur, feeling suddenly foolish for keeping it in his hand. "_Really?"_

"You know, Arthur," said Merlin conversationally, keeping his voice loud enough to carry across the courtyard to the other two sorcerers. "I'm starting to think that she planned out her side of the conversation ahead of time."

"Maybe she just thinks that she's scarier that she is," remarked Arthur loudly, catching on to Merlin's plan.

"It's like she doesn't even know us," answered Merlin, acidity barely concealed beneath the faux indignance.

"It _has_ been a while," observed Arthur.

"Still," said Merlin. "We came out here _alone_ on what was pretty much a suicide mission, basically because your honor was tarnished. We clearly haven't changed _that_ much."

"Very true."

"So much for those prophetic dreams of hers."

The slight on her dreams seemed to finally push her to the edge. "You'll pay for that, Arthur Pendragon!" she screamed, raising her right hand toward him.

Arthur had just enough time to tense his stance—whether to fight or flee, he was not sure—and wonder why she was attacking _him_ when Merlin had insulted her prophetic dreams. He supposed that it had something to do with the fact that she probably considered Merlin the more formidable of her two foes. She wanted to do damage. She wanted to make a point.

Instinctual reaction aside, Arthur wasn't _too_ alarmed. Morgana had always been reckless when she was angry, and considering that her attack was prefaced by a shrieked declaration of her intention to attack, he was fairly certain that Merlin would interfere before any serious harm came to either of them.

But it was not Merlin who saved him.

It was Mordred.

Mordred, who had been as still and as silent as the headless statue that stood between each of the duos, shot out a hand more quickly than Arthur could have imagined the boy capable. He took hold of Morgana's arm and forced it downward at the ground, away from Arthur. The force of whatever magical blow that she'd meant to strike cracked the stones beneath her feet, and Arthur realized uneasily that perhaps he should not have been so cavalier with his attitude toward her attack.

"Morgana," said Mordred calmly. "I warned you. You are not to do this."

"Why not?" she asked desperately, shaking her wrist free of his grip. "It must be done. Why should it not be me? I'll leave Merlin to you."

"Do not pretend that you are showing any generosity by granting Emrys' fate into my hands," he answered, his voice deadly smooth. "You have no right to choose how this shall unfold. And you do not intend to leave me Emrys out of any courtesy toward me. You do not believe yourself capable of handling him on your own."

"That's not true," she protested, the wavering of her voice betraying her statement.

"Then you are a fool," Mordred said. "You cannot face Emrys and survive."

"I can handle _Arthur_ just fine," she said petulantly.

"But you will not, Morgana."

"So I'm to just stand here and do nothing!"

"I did not say that," said Mordred, a hint of emotion flickering across his face. "The deaths of Arthur Pendragon and Emrys will not be at your hands. I did not say that you could not help."

At the exact same moment, Mordred and Morgana turned to face Arthur and Merlin. Morgana's eyes were focused on Merlin, but Mordred did not avert his gaze from Arthur. The tension crackled in the air, and Arthur drew his sword before he even realized that he intended to arm himself. After all, if he were to flee, a drawn sword would not be particularly helpful. But he did not intend to flee. If he had to flee, it would be because Merlin was dead, and even if he had it in his heart to abandon Merlin when he had given his life for Arthur, it wasn't as though he would make it very far anyway.

So he supposed that drawing Excalibur couldn't really hurt.

Morgana stretched an arm toward them.

Mordred clasped his hands behind his back.

Their eyes—both pairs so light and so bright that they would have been beautiful were they not so clouded by malice—glowed gold.

"Damn," said Arthur.

In the very last moment before he was positive that the world would go to hell around him, he looked at Merlin. There was no time to ask, no time to be sure. But he wanted to see Merlin.

Merlin stood in front of him at an angle, allowing Arthur clear sight of his profile. His stance was alarmingly casual, and Arthur was suddenly afraid that Merlin had done something colossally stupid like _blink_ at the exact wrong moment. Then, he saw from the side as Merlin's eyes ignited as well.

And then the world stopped.

It was quiet. That was the first thing that he noticed. The entire world around them had…muffled itself. No more threats or spells from Mordred or Morgana. No crunches and crashes as bits of the castle crumbled around them. No wind whistling in and out of the courtyard from the openness of the sky above them. All that he could hear, he realized, was the steady breathing of another person.

In an instant, he found himself stomping forward and grabbing Merlin by the shoulder. He was fairly certain that half of the reason that he was pounding through the silence was out of a desire to make sure that the world was all that had stopped and that he was still able to move of his own volition. He could imagine very little that could be more horrible than to be aware of the world around him but unable to interact with it

The other half of the reason was because he was too unnerved to be anything other than angry. Spinning Merlin around, he found himself shouting.

"Merlin, what the _hell_ did you just do?" he yelled, his voice echoing eerily in the emptiness of their motionless world.

Merlin snorted and shoved Arthur's arm off of his shoulder. "You're learning, Arthur. No more, 'Merlin, what the hell just happened?' Now it's, 'Merlin, what the hell did you just do?'"

"I mean it, Merlin!"

He raised his hands in a gesture of peace. Looking apologetic, he said, "I stopped time."

"What!"

He nodded. "Well, technically I _slowed_ time. But, for all intents and purposes, I stopped it."

"You can _do_ that?" asked Arthur, shaken. He could deal with Merlin blowing things up and throwing them around and lighting them on fire and coming back from the dead. He was fine with those particular demonstrations of magic. But to slow time…that didn't seem right. Time did not feel like something that any man ought to be able to control.

"Yeah. Sorry if I scared you," said Merlin, seeming to pick up on Arthur's discomfort. "I don't do it very often, if that helps."

Arthur scowled. "You didn't _scare_ me. You _surprised_ me."

"Liar."

"Would you mind telling me _why_ you decided to stop time?"

"I needed to talk to you."

"_Now?"_

"Yes, and I have to be quick about it. They'll figure out what's going on, and this won't last too long against both of them at once. Not after Mordred knocked me around."

"Then talk!"

Merlin took a deep breath, and Arthur prepared himself for what was probably going to be a very disorganized and almost certainly unintelligible speech delivered very quickly. Before he had time to do much more than wonder how much of it he would be able to actually understand, Merlin choked on his inhalation.

"Merlin, what—"

When Merlin looked at him, Arthur saw that his eyes looked positively _merry._ Merlin had choked on a laugh.

"This is the worst day ever," said Arthur dully. "What _now?"_

Merlin laughed under his breath, managing not to strangle himself in the process. "I was just remembering something that you told me once."

"When?"

"Oh, years ago. You were training one day and you gave me a shield so that you could pummel me half to death with a clean conscience. I said—between blows—that if this was a real battle and I was really facing an armed knight in full armor, my strategy probably wouldn't be to stand still and hide behind an old wood shield."

Despite himself, Arthur smiled at the memory. "You said that you'd probably just drop the shield and run away."

"And I stand by that," said Merlin. "But do you remember what you told me?"

Arthur bit his lip, trying to recall the specifics. "I said…I said that when you're trying to protect yourself from an enemy that you cannot hope to defeat, the best offense is a good defense, because no knight goes into battle on his own."

"I pointed out that I was _not_ a knight and that my defensively capabilities would only last until my wooden shield cracked and the enemy chopped my head off. What did you say then, Arthur?"

Arthur laughed quietly, suddenly very sad. "I said that I'd come rescue you before it was too late."

"And that I'd better not try to help you because I'd just get in your way, as I recall."

"I stand by _that."_

"And you have," said Merlin. "Granted, I could have just used magic to help myself, but that's a whole other issue that we probably shouldn't get into just now. The point is that time and time again, you dragged me into your battles, without armor or helmet or even that cracked wooden shield, like a great selfish prat who wanted to get his manservant killed. But you always came and got me out of my messes. You always would, you said."

Arthur snorted. "All that time on the training field and all of those instructions on self-defense, and what _you_ remember is when we had talks about _feelings."_

"They were rare enough."

"You are such a girl."

"Yeah, that's how they usually ended. I hope that you're kinder to Robert."

"He's so damn eager to please," said Arthur, wondering if he'd ever see his replacement manservant ever again. "If I insulted him, he'd probably giving up living and just die on the spot. _You_ were a rubbish servant most of the time."

"Yeah, well, anyway," said Merlin, his voice growing thick. Arthur groaned inwardly, wondering if he ought to call Merlin a girl again. "Just…remember that, okay?"

"What?"

"Everything that I just said."

"I thought that that was just a preface to the real thing that you wanted to tell me."

"Oh. No, that was it."

"For heaven's sake, I was barely even listening!"

"Liar."

"You're such a girl," grumbled Arthur.

"Hey, Arthur?"

"What?"

"Get ready," said Merlin.

"For what?"

Merlin just shrugged, and his eyes ignited once more.

"Oh, not _again_—" Arthur began. Would it have killed him to be a little bit more specific? It would have taken all of two seconds. "_Get ready for how I'm going to do more magic now, Arthur,"_ he could have said. "_For how this is all going to happen, Arthur,"_ maybe. "_For having magic and making your life unnecessarily difficult, Arthur,"_ would certainly have done just fine as well.

Then, several things happened all at once.

Time started again.

Morgana shifted her gaze away from Merlin and locked onto Arthur. She began to shriek a stream of words that he didn't understand, her fingertips quivering as she pointed them in his direction.

Merlin bellowed a single word, his arm _also_ pointed at the king.

Arthur swore.

Then, Morgana was blasted off of her feet with so much force that she collided with an alarming _crunch_ against the angle of the steps that led from castle floor down into the courtyard. Her dark hair spread out against the white brick beneath her, and the remarkable paleness of her skin didn't seem so unhealthy when it wasn't contorted by a scowl. Motionless, she looked almost beautiful again. Motionless…

Everything was silent.

Arthur looked, confused, at Merlin. Merlin had been going on and on about how the best offense was a good defense and how Arthur had looked after him and how Arthur always got him out of his stupid non-magical messes in battle. Arthur had assumed that Merlin's first move was not going to be an assault, especially considering what had happened the last time that he'd tried to surprise attack Morgana. And his hand had been pointed at _Arthur_, not Morgana. Still. However he had done it, it had worked.

Merlin looked shocked and more that a little bit fearful. Arthur didn't understand. Merlin must have known what he was doing. After all of these years and from what he had seen of Merlin's magic that day, Merlin had control over what he did. He must have known what would happen to Morgana when he cast that spell of his. Why did he look so _tense_ all of the sudden?

Then, Arthur saw Merlin tear his eyes away from Morgana and lower the hand that had still been pointed at Arthur. Angry tears brightened his eyes, and he pivoted where he stood to face Mordred. Arthur followed his gaze, and his heart skipped a dozen beats when he saw Mordred staring directly at Merlin.

"What have you done?" asked Merlin hoarsely, almost pleadingly. "What have you _done!"_

"What was necessary," answered Mordred, still watching Merlin.

"She was on your side."

"Were you so anxious for her blood to be on your hands?"

"She was on your _side!" _

"She interfered," said Mordred dismissively. "I warned her against what she was trying to do. I _warned_ her. And yet still she interfered."

"With _what?"_ demanded Merlin, sounding angry.

Mordred didn't answer.

Merlin swayed on his feet.

Arthur didn't understand.

"With _what?"_ repeated Arthur. He was so sick of everyone else knowing everything and no one telling him _anything_ and now they weren't even _using_ words. Why did everyone insist on keeping him in the dark? How the hell was he supposed to figure anything out if they were just trading insults via significant looks? He was sick of it. "Damn it, she interfered with _what?"_

Mordred turned away from Merlin. He fixed his gaze on Arthur and smiled.

"Fate."

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**Thank you for reading! Please review. **


	22. Two

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine**.

His leg hurt.

He didn't think that any of the others knew. Arthur seemed rather preoccupied with everything that was going on and trying to figure out whether or not they were likely to survive the encounter. Mordred seemed to be a young man who would be quick to disregard the weaknesses of the body, so long as the mind remained active. Merlin understood that. Neither of them were particularly of a build that rendered them likely warriors. They could break every bone in their respective bodies; so long as they were conscious, they would have stood a chance. If Mordred had known that his leg hurt, it hadn't mattered. And Morgana was not in the state to be noticing anything. No, none of them knew that his leg hurt, so far as he could tell, and he supposed that he ought to be grateful for _that_. Besides, what did it matter if his leg hurt? He was lucky to have survived Mordred's attack without a few imploded organs at the very least. Mordred had certainly been surprised to see Merlin alive, and Merlin was vindictively pleased that his injury had not been a result of Mordred's spell but rather from his fall.

Still, his leg hurt, aching every time that he shifted his weight. And every time that he felt that ache, that a stab of pain shot up his leg to his hip, that he tried not to betray the fact that he was injured, all that he could think was that it was _really _unnecessary. All that was going on and all that _would_ be going on and whether or not he would win and what the consequences of winning would mean for him and what they would mean for Arthur and what they would mean for Mordred and what they may have already meant for Morgana, _and_ he had to have an injured leg? It was just unfair.

He was probably not filling Arthur with a great deal of confidence, he realized. Arthur had never really seen him in a magical battle of any sort. Yes, he had sort of seen Merlin fling an enemy sorceress into a fireplace, but that had been an entirely different scenario. Arthur had never seen Merlin on the offensive, not really. He'd seen that Merlin was good at lighting things on fire and lifting them and floating them and breaking out of prison cells and then there was the time that he'd accidentally demolished the innards of the entire castle in a fit of grief after Gaius had died, but there had been no magical duels. All that Arthur had to go on regarding Merlin's status as an exceptional sorcerer was Merlin's word on the matter.

He _did_ seem suitably impressed by Merlin's Dragonlording and by what legitimately appeared to be his impression that Merlin had indeed died and come back to life after his fall from Aithusa's back, but he hadn't seen Merlin dueling any other sorcerers. Hell, Merlin didn't even do it all that often. But he was suddenly wishing that he had demonstrated some of his more aggressive spells before they had reached their destination. Arthur must surely have some serious doubts about their odds by now. All that he'd witnessed was Mordred being faster on the attack when Merlin had gone after Morgana. At least Arthur had figured out fairly quickly that Merlin had not gone and died ("again," probably, in Arthur's point of view) from the spell and bought time for him to choose an opening to reveal himself to their foes. One of their rare moments of effective communication, and they hadn't even spoken. Guinevere would just _love_ that.

But Arthur had said enough, Merlin thought, getting himself back on track. It was time for Arthur to remove himself from the equation as much as was possible. Of course, if Merlin had his way, Arthur would remove himself from the equation by sprinting away until he was far enough from the castle for Aithusa to come and get him, but Merlin rarely got his way with Arthur. All that he could hope for was that Arthur would just back away and…shut up. Arthur as a nonentity would be _fantastic_, Merlin thought grimly. And maybe he could preoccupy Mordred, make him angry, distract him enough that he'd forget about killing Arthur for a few moments and focus on his far more justified revenge on Merlin. Merlin would feel a great deal better about the whole situation if he only had to worry about protecting himself rather than Arthur as well.

"Arthur," he said quietly, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice.

"What," said Arthur, not at all inquisitively. He was looking at where Morgana lay with an expression of something so close to _concern_ that Merlin dismissed it immediately, unwilling to deal with what the hell _that_ could mean until they had the time and freedom to do so. This was no time for emotions. Arthur needed to think of Morgana as a witch and an enemy at that moment, just as Merlin needed to forget that she had once been his friend. They could mourn when their own lives were safe. The concern that they ought be feeling just then was _not_ for fallen sorceress.

"Arthur," repeated Merlin. "Arthur, I need you to do something for me."

"What?" asked Arthur, tearing his eyes away from the prone figure of his half-sister.

"I need you to…not interrupt," he said, his voice trailing off as he heard himself. Merlin couldn't blame Arthur when he gave Merlin a strange look, tinged with annoyance. Arthur tended to get cranky when there was magic in the air and Merlin was being cryptic.

"What."

"I need to have a word with Mordred," he elaborated helpfully.

"Go on, then," said Arthur, giving a permissive wave of his hand that Merlin found oddly irritating.

"You have to be _quiet,"_ he clarified, wishing that he could make Arthur understand without having to attempt to explain it.

"I understand," said Arthur, looking so grave that Merlin believed him. Then again, considering all of the threats and accusations and reminders that the three sorcerers had been throwing at each other regarding offenses of which Arthur would have been entirely ignorant, Arthur was probably glad to seize onto an occupation with which he was familiar.

"No words," Merlin insisted nonetheless, wanting to hear Arthur promise it.

"I know what being quiet entails, Merlin," said Arthur, a bit of the recognizable arrogance in his tone. That was good.

"Nothing at all. No words until I say it's okay for you to…until I say that I'm done," said Merlin, correcting himself halfway through his instruction. Arthur would no doubt take the request more seriously if it did not sound as though Merlin was giving him orders. Besides, even _he_ could hear how irritating he was being.

"I get it, Merlin!"

"Good," said Merlin under his breath as he began to pace. Objectively, he knew that the movement was a bad idea. Standing in front of Arthur gave him a better defensive position, both for the protection of the king and just in case something went dreadfully wrong and they had to try to flee. Arthur had managed to back himself into an area of the courtyard directly in front of one of the two exits back into the castle. If they could make the twenty-foot dash, Merlin would be able to cave in the corridor behind them, and they would stand a chance of escaping on foot. But escaping was not Merlin's plan.

Still, leaving Arthur vulnerable and Merlin keeping himself _not_ facing Mordred directly was an objectively unwise idea.

But this was not objective. Mordred would hear him out. Mordred would want to hear what he had to say.

Although, now that he thought about it, Arthur probably wouldn't.

"Mordred," said Merlin, looking to the boy.

"Emrys," he answered, inclining his head.

"I need to speak with you."

"I gathered."

"Will you speak plainly?"

Mordred looked vaguely surprised. "If you do as well."

Merlin stopped pacing and walked a few steps closer to Mordred.

_I can do that,_ he thought, directing the words at the other sorcerer. Arthur didn't need to hear this.

Mordred smiled. _Very well._

_You attacked Morgana,_ Merlin began, slightly uncomfortable. He hadn't had a thought conversation in a long time. Few sorcerers were powerful enough to have the capabilities, and even then, most seemed to prefer speaking rather than thinking their dialogues.

Mordred just shook his head. _I warned Morgana._

Merlin rolled his eyes. _Was she not already damaged enough for you?_

_You speak as though you had no hand in the matter, _observed Mordred, eyes glinting with a sinister slyness that made him look more like a child than usual.

_You were the one to attack her, _Merlin pointed out.

_This time. _

Merlin groaned. Randomly, he wondered how this must look to Arthur. Two sorcerers, reacting to a conversation that he couldn't hear. It probably looked like Merlin and Mordred were beginning the "epic battle" that Arthur seemed to be expecting by making faces at one another. Merlin wasn't even sure if Arthur knew that he could speak to certain magic users with only his thoughts. Yes, this undoubtedly looked strange. Yet another thing that Arthur could rightfully begrudge him.

_Why are you doing this?_ he asked suddenly, feeling foolish at the petulance of the words even as he formed them.

Mordred just shrugged. _I did what needed to be done._

_She's been betrayed by everyone that she ever trusted,_ Merlin thought desperately, wondering in the back of his mind why he was taking up her cause. Why should he be indignant on her behalf? When he thought of all of the things that she'd done…

_Perhaps she is a Pendragon after all,_ Mordred responded, looking at Merlin with an expression of dangerous significance on his face. Merlin gave an involuntary shudder, and his leg twinged as Mordred continued. _Becoming victims of the occasional betrayal seems to be a family trait. _

_The powerful are always vulnerable to…subterfuge...from outside sources,_ Merlin answered carefully, rationalizing.

_But you are particularly experienced, are you not, Emrys?_ Mordred thought at him. _You betrayed the father as you betrayed the son as you betrayed the daughter._

Merlin bit his lip. _Can you truly blame me for Uther?_

_Had Uther ever wronged you personally? _Mordred inquired blandly.

_Has _Arthur_ ever wronged _you_ personally? _retorted Merlin.

Mordred ignored Merlin's jibe regarding Arthur's unwitting role in the whole plot. Merlin didn't mind. They wouldn't get very far if they spent the rest of the day arguing about the past crimes of Uther and, yes, Arthur as he was, and debating whose aggression was more justified. Mordred just changed the subject as though Merlin hadn't answered him. _It was cowardice that motivated your betrayals of Arthur and Morgana,_ Mordred thought. _Cowardice and distrust. _

_I did what I had to do,_ Merlin defended, using the same familiar words that he had so often repeated to himself, reassuring himself as he told lie after lie after lie. _You seem to understand that._

Mordred smiled again. _Do you truly believe that Arthur would have given you up to his father, knowing that you would be killed?_

Merlin didn't answer. He just remembered how Arthur had so blindly loved Uther, his only parent…

_Do you believe that of your friend, Emrys?_

Merlin didn't answer. He just remembered how Arthur had been so destroyed by Uther's death that Merlin had all but mourned the king's death as well because of Arthur's terrible sadness rather than for his own consequences.

_Do you believe that Arthur would have allowed you to be killed for the sake of his father's laws? _Mordred pressed.

_Yes,_ Merlin finally answered, honestly. He did not blame Arthur for the hypothetical execution; they had both done many things in their early years together that were not particularly commendable. What mattered was what they did _now, _as grown men, as they learned from their past mistakes. Still, he was very glad that Arthur was not privy to their conversation.

_And yet you stood by his side, _remarked Mordred, seeming more curious than anything else.

_Yes._

_Why?_

_He was my friend,_ Merlin replied, wincing at himself. He could hear the inadequacy in the words, and he blushed. It always sounded so bad when it was put into words…

_You lie,_ thought Mordred. _Why did you remain with Arthur?_

Merlin swallowed hard, realizing what Mordred was getting at. He did not want to answer, but he had sworn to speak plainly with Mordred. Enemies they were, but Merlin could not expect to receive the truth from Mordred if he was not truthful himself. _Because I had to._

Mordred nodded. _Why?_

"Destiny," Merlin said aloud, casting aside Arthur's doubtless confusion at the sudden spoken word.

Mordred took a step toward him. _You believe._

Merlin stood his ground, annoyed. _I didn't say that._

_You stayed as a _servant_ to an arrogant prince turned king for nearly a decade, _Mordred thought. He laughed, the sound unnerving as Merlin heard his simultaneous words as Mordred went on. _Tolerating humiliation after humiliation, debasing and denying yourself for the sake of a man who rarely spoke a decent word to you._

Merlin shrugged. It wasn't the first time that the words had run through his mind.

_Yes. _

He wanted to tell Mordred that Arthur was a prince and Arthur was a king and the way that Arthur behaved was just how he had been raised to behave. Arthur was still a good man. He wanted to defend Arthur's arrogance as justified, but he knew better than most that that wasn't _always_ true. And he had sworn to tell the truth.

When Merlin didn't say any more than his affirmation, Mordred nodded again, looking as though he was beginning to understand. _Because you had been told of your destiny and you _believed _it._

_Yes, _confirmed Merlin, his heart sinking at the picture being painted of him.

_You believed in your destiny,_ Mordred continued. _You believed in yours. Why can you not believe in mine?_

Merlin set his jaw. Finally, something that he was sure of.

_I _choose_ not to,_ he answered firmly_._

_You disappoint me, Emrys,_ replied Mordred. _After all this time and after all that you've done, you still have not learned. _

Merlin snorted, and he caught out of the corner of his eye an alarmed look on Arthur's face. He supposed that this was probably a very strange scene for him. It was odd enough when they were glaring and gritting their teeth at each other. The smiles and snickers were probably somewhat more disquieting.

Still, he snorted.

_I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mordred. Was this not written?_ Merlin inquired innocently.

Mordred's eyes began to grow blank, and Merlin tensed. _You speak of what you do not know._

_Technically, I'm not actually _speaking_ of anything__. _

Mordred scowled, and Merlin relaxed a bit. _You are the one who chose our method of discourse. _

_I was feeling nostalgic, _Merlin thought flippantly. _This is how we met, remember? When I saved you from the Camelot guards? When I saved your life?_

He saw Mordred take a deep breath.

_Will you stand for your king, Emrys?_

Merlin bit his lip, thoughtful. An interesting question. Interesting that Mordred would ask it. He was little more than a child, Merlin reminded himself. But that Mordred would ask..._  
_

Would he stand for his king?

Mordred seemed to legitimately doubt it. Merlin supposed that he did have a point. Objectively. His summary of Merlin's and Arthur's relationship most of the time hadn't exactly been inaccurate. He supposed that he could see where Mordred was coming from.

He bit his lip, thinking. He thought of all of the times that Arthur _had_ rather mistreated him over the years, of all of the times that Kilgarrah's words of his _destiny_ had sustained him, of all of the times that he'd grown fed up with the whole arrangement and considered quitting Arthur's service in spite of it all, of how he had to do magic on his own just to remind himself that he had some worth beyond his work as an admittedly halfhearted servant, of all of the times that he'd saved Arthur's life and had to pretend that he'd been too busy hiding to have seen what had happened. He thought of how he had been so surrounded by friends for so long and yet still managed to be so very lonesome.

_Will you stand for your king? _Mordred had asked.

He thought of all of the things that he'd wanted for so long. All of the things, all the freedoms, all the intangibles that he'd told himself that he would get once he told everyone the truth and he was safe and magic was legal and that he thought he'd never get because none of those things would ever happen. He thought of how he couldn't seem to remember just now why those things had once seemed so important. All that he could think of was of what he so wished for at that moment, in the courtyard of the dead castle opposite his child foe.

_Will you stand for your king?_ Mordred had asked.

Merlin wished that he knew whether or not Mordred was correct about why they were all there; he wished that he knew whether or not Mordred was merely trying to unnverve him; he wished that he knew whether or not he truly _was_ a fool; he wished that he knew whether it would be head or heart that would win this battle; and Merlin wished more than anything that he knew whether or not, underneath it all, he was truly lying when he told Mordred that he had no doubts about favoring choice over destiny. Choosing to try to change rather than allowing matters to run their course. He had tried before...

_Will you stand for your king, _Emrys_?_ Mordred had asked.

Very suddenly and all at once, Merlin found himself laughing.

Mordred's eyes were growing blank, and he clasped his hands behind his back.

_You will stand for your king, Emrys?_ asked Mordred, his voice dull with the confidence of the inevitability of the fate that had been written for Arthur and that Mordred knew so well.

Sobering himself, Merlin stood up straight, ignoring the ache in his leg and not remembering why he'd been so bothered by the injury in the first place.

"Yes, I will stand for my king," said Merlin, aloud once more. He smiled, his voice animated with the confidence of the inevitability of the choice that he'd made years ago when he'd taken his place by Arthur's side, that two sides of the same coin meant that for Arthur and Merlin, destiny would be always countered with decision. "I will stand for my king. And Mordred?"

"Yes, Emrys?"

"My name is Merlin," he said.

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**Thank you for reading! I'm sorry if the italics were annoying. It was just very important to me that this conversation be in their heads, and I didn't really have any other way to convey that. **

**Also, if the dialogue is getting tiresome…come back for some _real_ confrontation in the next chapter. **** :) The end is coming…**

**Please review! :)**


	23. One

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine**.

Sometimes, he wondered if it was all part of some cosmic joke. That somehow, all of the sorcerers had some great plan that involved befuddling all of the normal people into not understanding a damn thing and it was all some big practical joke that always ended poorly because the sorcerers went too far and they had to start all over with a new group of normal people. It wasn't revenge or anger or petulance or madness. It was a practical joke that was funny to everyone with magic but didn't seem quite so entertaining to everyone else because no one else was in on the joke. Sometimes, everything that was so serious and so grave that was happening around him was just so _ridiculous_ and utterly unlikely that Arthur would have a moment where he would want to try to yank the mask off of his enemies to see if it wasn't someone that he knew trying to pull one over on him.

This was one of those times.

He and Merlin had flown over countless leagues of forest with no concrete destination in mind, based on a threatening summons with no signature, on the back of a moody dragon, falling off of that moody dragon, angering that moody dragon, climbing in and out of pits full of skeletons, eating acorn paste, nearly getting themselves killed every other day, fighting, foraging, forcing themselves forward because they had a _job_ to do and it was important and no one else could do it and the whole kingdom would fall to pieces if they didn't and it was all supposed to be coming to a climax as they—King Arthur and his secret weapon sorcerer Merlin—faced their true enemy with dignity, nobility, and justice.

And _now,_ his secret weapon sorcerer and their true enemy were standing across from one another, making faces at each other.

He didn't know Mordred so well, but for an instant, he wondered if this was Merlin's ultimate revenge for all of his years of servitude. He would bring Arthur out here and impress upon him the gravity of the situation and then do _this_ with their foe. It was only for an instant that he wondered, but still…could Merlin really be in his right mind for this? It didn't seem very wise.

Plus, Merlin was injured. He wasn't moaning or groaning or grimacing or doing anything else indicative of pain, but the way in which he kept shifting his weight and leaning on his left leg rather than his right told Arthur that Merlin wasn't exactly feeling his best. He _had_ landed fairly hard when Mordred had flung him.

Merlin also seemed to be under the impression that he was fooling them all into believing him unhurt, a fact which mildly offended Arthur. Even if he _hadn't_ known Merlin as well as he did and even if he _hadn't_ spent so much of his time with Merlin over the last decade, he'd been in battle enough times to be able to spot a wounded man within seconds. He just hoped that Mordred didn't pick up on Merlin's injury as well.

Annoyed and suddenly exhausted, Arthur rubbed his face with his hands. Eyes closed, he could feel the spot of dampness on his sleeve where he had raised it to his mouth, breathing heavily through the fabric to protect himself from what he assumed was the airborne toxin that was causing Merlin and Mordred to begin to grimace and glare at random before they were even able to begin their conversation.

When neither of the sorcerers had died and Arthur had reminded himself that breathing through the threadbare cloth of his tunic probably wasn't going to be all that helpful when he wasn't even running away from the contaminated area, he dropped his arm back to his side and began to reconsider. Perhaps Merlin and Mordred were not succumbing to an invisible floating poison. Perhaps this was how sorcerers began their more serious debates. Some cultures had strange rituals that preceded parlays, Arthur knew. Maybe this was some sort of magically decreed ritual that preceded sorcerous dialogues.

A _strange_ ritual. Apart from shifting expressions, neither of them were even _moving._ They were just…looking at each other. Looking at each other and making faces.

Perhaps it was a magical staring contest. That would make sense. From his experiences, the sorcerers with which he'd been most familiar had been very good at staring unblinkingly. Morgana had been, although he had to concede that perhaps he was just being fooled by the black stuff that she used to draw around and line her eyelids. He'd never been sure exactly why she did that, but he supposed that it was part of a magical spell that would keep her eyes extra wide. Morgause had always done the same thing.

Merlin had never resorted to lining his eyes, but then, Merlin was supposed to be an exceptionally powerful sorcerer, and he _was_ good at staring. Arthur had been on the receiving end on many occasions. Granted, the stare had usually been a glare or a look of prolonged disbelief or when Merlin was convinced that Arthur was wounded and on the constant verge of collapse. Still. He was good at staring.

Yes, perhaps this was a staring contest. They were both blinking and moving their heads, so Arthur supposed that the rules must have been different for sorcerers than they were for normal people. He assumed that the outcome was basically the same and, as the whole contest had begun when Merlin had pronounced his intention to have a conversation with Mordred, he figured that the winner would be the one who would get to speak first. That's how Arthur would have done it, anyway. It would have made the most sense.

Or maybe it was stupid. He had long ago learned that the best ideas are often so close to the worst ideas that it was sometimes difficult to tell the difference. Maybe the idea of a magical staring contest wasn't so much sensible as it was…unlikely. What else could it be, though?

Maybe they were stretching. Whenever it wasn't an ambush, Arthur liked to order his men to stretch before marching into a conflict. It wouldn't have done at all for his men to be massacred because of leg cramps. Since sorcerers seemed to battle more with yelling and whispering and making vague gestures, maybe they were limbering themelves up for their own particular sort of fight. After all, as far as Arthur could tell, any conversation between the pair of them was likely to turn fairly quickly into a fight. Maybe they were just thinking ahead and trying to prevent their…magical cramping…ahead of time.

He hadn't been able to decide, and he supposed that it said something about his grasp of the situation that his most likely ideas for what was causing the contorting expressions on Mordred's and Merlin's faces included airborne toxins, staring contests, and magical limbering.

Then, Merlin spoke.

Then, Merlin spoke one word. _One word. _

After he waited a few moments make sure that "destiny" was not just the beginning of a sentence and Merlin was taking a rather overly long dramatic pause before moving on to the _rest_ of the words, Arthur found himself scowling. Did "destiny" have another meaning that he didn't know? Or could it be that…when translated from that mystery language in which they all shouted their spells, saying that one word was the same as saying one very long speech that hopefully meant that something was going to happen?

At least it meant that Merlin had won the staring contest. That was a good sign.

Mordred didn't answer. He did, however, _move._ Arthur tensed up immediately, wondering if all of hell was about to break loose. Merlin, however, stood his ground, and Arthur sighed. Maybe the way it worked was that they were only allowed to take one step per word spoken by the other. He'd gone through a similar exercise once with an enemy prince from another kingdom.

Of course, that "exercise" had been a game, and the "enemy prince" was really only his enemy in the game, and they had gone off for snacks after they got tired of playing. This didn't seem very…playful. Or likely to end in snacks.

Or constructive. Was this _really _accomplishing anything? Morgana was lying over there, dead or dying, and they were making _faces_ at each other. Shouldn't they have been a _little_ bit concerned about her? If he had been the one to attack Morgana as Mordred had done, he would have at least wanted to make sure that it had gone as he had intended. He wasn't sure whether Mordred had intended to kill her or just knock her out of commission, but surely he would want to be _sure_ either way. Besides, didn't Merlin care? Arthur had known that this quest of theirs would probably prove to be rather…conclusive…for Morgana, but he'd always assumed that Merlin would struggle a bit more with it. Of course, _Merlin_ hadn't been the one to strike the blow as Arthur had always imagined, and Mordred _was_ an extra variable that they hadn't anticipated, so Merlin was a bit more distracted than had been anticipated, but still. Didn't anyone care about what was going on with Morgana?

Not that he did. He was just curious. After all, they didn't want her to get up and blast one of them away while they were so busy doing whatever the hell it was that they were doing. He'd go over and check himself, but he had the feeling that _that_ would be enough to prompt one of the two sorcerers to break off from their staring session to stop him. Mordred, because he seemed determined to kill him for some reason or other, and Merlin because he had warned Arthur not to interrupt and Arthur figured that Merlin would count this an interruption.

So he looked.

She wasn't moving. He couldn't even tell if her chest was rising with breath. Her black dress made it all blend together, and the way that she was crumpled into herself wasn't exactly helping. There was no color in her cheeks, but Morgana had always been so pale that it had almost seemed impossible that she was any relative of Arthur's. Was she dead?

Arthur bit his lip. Whatever Mordred had done, she'd been flung with considerable force across the courtyard. Still, she hadn't hit a wall or anything. Nothing to shatter all of her bones. But she had hit the corner of the top step that led from the courtyard up into the castle and there had been a sort of crunching noise that he couldn't imagine boded well for her health. Now, she was posed in a propped position, her shoulders leaning against the steps with her face only _just_ above the top of the step. She was dead. Surely, _surely,_ she was dead.

Wasn't she?

Then, Merlin snorted, and Arthur almost jumped out of his boots. Whether it was in surprise or pleasure that sound was beginning to take part in this parlay of theirs, Arthur could not say. _He_ was certainly glad that things were beginning to happen.

He wasn't so sure that that was a good thing. Merlin had seemed awfully nervous, but Arthur had been having a hard time deciphering the nerves. They weren't just for Merlin himself, but they didn't seem only for Arthur either. And the way that he kept making sure that he stood in front of Arthur, blocking him as much as his skinny form _could_ do any blocking from Mordred. Arthur didn't understand it. _Merlin_ had to be the target here. Mordred had said as much and, while Arthur would have undoubtedly been the easier of the two parties to kill, he had to imagine that Mordred would focus his aggression on the man who had the potential to defeat him before he turned on Arthur. Merlin ought to be worrying more about himself, Arthur thought. Only…

Why was Merlin so determined? He kept trying to block Mordred from Arthur, and he'd been babbling about _destiny…_

Arthur shivered. It occurred to him now that Mordred had been telling the truth when he'd said that it hadn't mattered whether or not Merlin had accompanied Arthur on this quest. That Merlin _had_ just been a happy surprise. That this really _was_ about Arthur. That Arthur's destiny and Mordred's were entwined in a way that Merlin didn't want to tell him. Why Merlin seemed so determined to thwart those destinies. Why he seemed so desperate about the whole thing. Why he was so nervous about keeping himself alive and between Arthur and Mordred. What those entwined destinies must have been. What Mordred was meant to do and what was meant to be done unto Arthur…

"Oh no," he whispered, his voice so quiet and matter-of-fact that he almost wondered if he'd actually spoken aloud.

Maybe this wasn't a staring contest.

Maybe there was a reason beyond Mordred's considerable powers that had so alarmed Merlin when they'd discovered that he had been behind the whole scheme.

Maybe there was a reason why Mordred had been so insistent that Morgana not be the one to kill Arthur.

Maybe there was a reason why Mordred was so confident that Merlin would not be the victor in the battle that was to come.

For the first time with any seriousness, Arthur thought that maybe he really ought to run.

_Destinies are troublesome things, _Merlin had once said to him.

Suddenly, Arthur wished that he didn't understand.

Then, Merlin spoke.

Looking straight at Mordred and _smiling_, he spoke.

"Yes, I will stand for my king," said Merlin. "I will stand for my king."

A chill ran through Arthur, and he wanted to shout at the top of his lungs and go home and stay right where he was and laugh and weep. Merlin would stand for his king. Of course he would. Of _course_ he would. What else would Merlin do? He'd been standing for his king before he'd even been king. Of course Merlin would throw all caution to the wind to try to save Arthur. Of _course_ Merlin would know of Mordred's destiny to kill and Arthur's fate to die and see that they _had_ to happen, only to laugh at fate and disregard destiny and plant himself between the two of them, willing to die as long as he died doing something so illogical as trying to challenge inevitability.

He would stand for his king.

Of course he would.

If they survived this, Arthur vowed, he was going to give Merlin a raise.

"And Mordred?" continued Merlin, ignoring the king for whom he was pledging his allegiance for what was most likely to be the very last time.

"Yes, Emrys?" asked the boy.

Arthur saw Merlin's face give a twitch, and he knew what it meant. Merlin was trying not to laugh.

"Uh oh," Arthur muttered again.

"My name is Merlin," said Merlin.

It then occurred to Arthur that there were a few oddities in Merlin's and Mordred's exchange. He'd been so busy being touched by Merlin's absurd loyalty that he hadn't seen it. The way that they were speaking…it was as though they were just continuing a conversation that they'd begun elsewhere and thought that they ought to finish before the world went to hell. But that didn't make sense. Arthur was under the impression that Merlin hadn't seen Mordred for many years, since before Arthur had been crowned king. If they had been continuing a conversation from such a long time ago, Mordred would not have been referring to Arthur as king, and he was pretty damn sure that Merlin would not have been announcing his intention to stand for _Uther._ What was going on?

"Merlin—" began Arthur.

"We were having a _mental_ conversation, Arthur," Merlin interrupted, not looking at him.

Arthur scowled before he could stop himself. Just because Merlin knew so much more about the current state of affairs didn't mean that he knew what Arthur had been about to ask him. Did Merlin really think that Arthur was going to choose _this_ of all times to ask about the mood in which they were conversing?

"I'm sure that it _was_ a crazy conversation, Merlin. What _I_ was asking was—"

"For heaven's sake," said Merlin, still not turning. "We were having a conversation _in our heads."_

"Oh," said Arthur. That _did_ explain a lot.

"Now shut up, Arthur," ordered Merlin, his voice strained.

"Yes, Arthur," said Mordred, his tone mocking and annoyed. "Shut up."

"Shut up, Mordred!" exclaimed Merlin and Arthur at the same time.

"If I did not know better," remarked Mordred calmly. "I would wonder how you both have managed to survive so long. You certainly do not bring out the maturity in one another."

"What are you, fifteen?" asked Arthur, suddenly curious. Mordred had been only a little boy when they'd first met, and that hadn't been _that_ long ago, had it?

"My age does not matter."

Mordred's non-answer just made him more suspicious.

"It does to me. How old are you?"

"Old enough," dodged Mordred.

"For what?

"For what has been written."

"You don't have to do this, Mordred," said Arthur quietly, trying not to be annoyed that Mordred was once again referring to what was "written" and ignoring Merlin's expression as he whipped around to stare at Arthur. So what if Merlin thought he was crazy? Merlin was here to be the muscle, Arthur thought, as absurd as that sounded. Mordred was here because he believed that he had to be. Arthur had to give him a chance. He was a child…"We can all just leave."

"Arthur, what are you doing?" hissed Merlin, coming up to Arthur's side.

"The same thing that _you_ are, destiny dodger," Arthur quietly shot back. "Except _my_ way, no one has to die."

"This is _ridiculous,_ Arthur," said Merlin, sounding incredulous even in whisper.

"You're the one who says that this doesn't have to happen."

"This is not what I meant!"

"I have to try," said Arthur, very seriously. Merlin finally rolled his eyes and gestured his acquiescence as Mordred finally responded.

"I cannot just _leave,"_ said Mordred, looking wary. "I have a destiny."

He was such a child, thought Arthur, a stab of absurd pity striking at him. He was so alone and so powerful and so lost, clinging to the only thing that he thought that he knew for sure, to what was "written," clinging to the destiny that defined him when there was nothing else in his life constant enough to do any defining…he was Merlin, in so many ways. His "destiny" was just darker.

"This doesn't have to happen to either of us," Arthur found himself saying. "Just…turn around and _go._ Merlin won't stop you, will you, Merlin?"

Arthur looked at Merlin, who had his arms crossed over his chest. He raised his eyebrows and didn't answer.

"Merlin won't stop you," repeated Arthur, disregarding Merlin and turning back to Mordred. "And neither will I."

"You couldn't."

"This won't end well," Arthur warned sadly, already knowing how this was going to end.

"For you," said Mordred.

"For any of us."

There was so much cold hatred in his eyes. So much determination. How could he be so angry and yet so detached at the same time? It wasn't fair to any of them. Mordred, who could have been Merlin. Merlin, who could have Mordred. Morgana, who could have been so many things. Arthur, who only wanted to go home to his wife and have a family. Whatever happened, there would be no winner. A victor, yes, but no winner. There was too much interconnected imbalance for any of them to escape unscathed. Arthur, the king. Morgana, the illegitimate. Merlin and Mordred, the lost boys. It was too late.

He had tried.

Arthur sighed. "Merlin?"

"Yes?"

"You're up."

Arthur didn't know what he'd expected. It wasn't very likely that they were going to shake hands or bow or wait for a third party to shout "Go!" There weren't really terms for them to discuss beforehand. It would have just been silly to see them take twenty paces and then try to cast their spells faster than the other.

The only thing that he knew he did _not_ expect was for Merlin to hardly wait for Arthur's words to have left his mouth to strike. Yet no sooner had Arthur given his blessing than Merlin began to run in the opposite direction of Mordred, grabbing Arthur by the collar of his shirt and yanking him backwards in the process. Arthur was just beginning to wonder if Merlin had interpreted Arthur's "you're up" to mean that it was time for them to run away when he stopped and let go of Arthur, at least thirty feet from Mordred. Arthur, unprepared for the sudden cessation of movement and released from Merlin's grip, kept staggering forward for a good fifteen feet. By the time that he managed to slow his momentum without falling over, he was closer to the edge of the courtyard than he was to Merlin.

When he turned around, he suddenly wondered if maybe he shouldn't have staggered a bit farther away.

Merlin got the first blow. Arthur wasn't sure how; he'd assumed that Merlin's flight to get some space between Mordred and the two of them had cost Merlin the time that would have allowed him to strike at Mordred. And yet…

It was almost the same motion that he'd used on Morgana, the batting away of the invisible fly. But what he'd done to fell Morgana in his warning shot had been a halfhearted waving of a floppy palm. It hadn't looked as though it required his full attention, let alone powers. This time…Merlin's hand was stiff as he pointed it at Mordred. Clenching it into a fist, Merlin _tugged_, yanking his hand back toward his navel. Immediately, Mordred fell.

He didn't fall like Morgana had, either. Morgana had toppled over gracelessly. Mordred landed _hard,_ his body forced to the stone below rather than merely knocked off balance as hers had been. He hit, and there was a _smack_ that echoed throughout the desolate courtyard. Arthur found himself wincing. He was _supposed_ to want this to be happening to Mordred. He was supposed to want Merlin to be battering away at Mordred. He just would have preferred if Merlin could have done something like squash his brain or turn his heart into a turnip or something that would end this without them having to watch Mordred being tossed around like a doll. That fall must have hurt…he would have been surprised if Mordred was still conscious…

Mordred was apparently made of tougher stuff than Arthur had anticipated. After a moment of lying facedown on the ground, Arthur saw his shoulderblades give a twitch, and Mordred raised his head. There was a long scrape along the side of his face, running from his ear down to his chin, and a gash marred his forehead. His nose was bleeding, although it looked as though he somehow hadn't broken in the fall.

He looked like hell.

But his eyes were bright.

Without bothering to rise all the way, Mordred put his hands onto the ground, palms flat against the brick. Propped diagonally on his knees, looking as though he was about to begin doing the girlish half-pushups that Arthur firmly believed Merlin only capable of, he faced the ground and began to speak a long stream of words, none of which Arthur could recognize. When he reached the final syllable, his voice became a roar and he looked up at Merlin.

Suddenly, Arthur found his body shaking terribly, and he lost balance and fell. It was only when he hit the brick beneath him that he realized that Mordred had not attacked _him_ in an effort to get to Merlin. Whatever Mordred had done, he was shaking the castle.

Part of it, at least. The ground beneath him shuddered violently, and there were _snaps_ in the air as some of the larger stones began to break. As he looked down, tiny spiderwebs of cracks began to emerge in the stones, shards etching themselves free around him. When he looked up, he saw the huge headless statue that stood halfway between Mordred and Merlin sway on its plinth.

Merlin swayed as well, nearly falling. He caught himself on one hand, swearing for some reason as he pushed himself up. As Arthur took a closer look, he saw blood dripping from Merlin's hand, and he realized: the shards of stone were not so much harmless pebbles as they were tiny knives. Merlin had cut himself. No wonder he had sworn.

The next word that he shouted, however, was not an obscenity. Well, Arthur supposed distantly, perhaps it _was._ He didn't understand the damn language anyway.

Whatever it was, however, it was effective. No sooner had the word left his mouth than the ground stilled, and Arthur was able to climb back to his feet, avoiding sticking his fingers into the rocks that had sliced Merlin. Terrified as he was, he found himself growing a bit cocky. Mordred looked as though he'd been beaten half to death, and all that _he_ had accomplished was further damaging the foundation of the courtyard. Merlin's hand injury wasn't even directly due to Mordred's attack. Merlin was going to have an easier time of this than either of them had believed, thought Arthur.

Then, he realized.

Mordred's attack had been two-fold. He'd unbalanced Merlin, who had clearly not expected Mordred's choice of spell, allowing Mordred to climb back to his feet. And Mordred had cost Merlin his opportunity for a second spell. Merlin had had to use his chance for an attack to stop the destruction of the courtyard and the quaking of the ground. He wouldn't have time to do anything else before Mordred did. It was all happening so _fast..._

Merlin had clearly realized as well, and there was fear in his face as he looked back at Mordred. Mordred, clasping his hands behind his back, began to speak once more.

Rocks from all over the courtyard began to float up off of the ground. The tiny sharp shards of rock dislodged from Mordred's earthquake, whole bricks rendered loose by decades of disrepair, intact rocks shaken loose when the surrounding bricks were released, the pebbles remaining of stones long ago destroyed…they rose up and flew toward Mordred. With a few strokes of his hand, Mordred assembled them into a floating wall of rock. Chinks here and there were missing so that Mordred was still marginally visible, but the rock wall was solid and thick. Arthur could see as much.

Glancing at Merlin, he saw a _smile_ on the sorcerer's face. Merlin almost looked…pleased. Pleased, and vaguely condescending. It was very strange, as though he was glad that Mordred was putting up a good fight. Arthur thought that he understood. Merlin intended to kill Mordred no matter what, but he'd feel a hell of a lot better about it if Mordred made it difficult for him. Yes, Merlin was clearly pleased that Mordred was making things difficult. But he was smiling…Merlin knew what to do. This rock wall was nothing that he could not handle, by the look of things. So focused that he looked nearly relaxed, he faced the rock wall and raised both hands in front of him, ready for the attack. Arthur watched Merlin.

It was therefore that neither of them saw the rock coming. Just as Merlin was opening mouth to say what Arthur assumed was sorcerer-speak for making rock walls explode, a flat stone the size of a dinner plate zoomed out of nowhere and cracked Merlin on the side of his head. Merlin dropped immediately, having only the time to raise a hand to his head before he hit the ground.

Arthur yelled, badly frightened and wanting to help, yet not knowing how to not make things worse.

Merlin swore groggily, trying and failing to push himself up.

Mordred didn't say anything at all. He just moved his arm toward where Merlin had fallen, directing the wall of heavy rocks and sharp shards of stone at the fallen sorcerer. It moved slowly and there was an expression of intense concentration, and in the back of his mind, where Arthur was a soldier ready for anything and not a man frightened for his friend, Arthur thought that whatever magic that Mordred was doing, it was costing him energy. That was good, at least.

Somehow, Merlin stood up. He was wobbly, and when he tried to lean on his bad leg to steady himself, he nearly fell over again. But he stood.

For a moment, that was all that he did. Arthur supposed that it was still impressive, being able to climb to his feet after being clobbered in the head with a rock, but he hoped that Merlin would do something a bit more impressive very soon. The rock wall was picking up speed and would be smashing into Merlin in a few seconds if he didn't hurry up and do something to stop it. Arthur wished so very much that he could do _something_ to help, but he didn't think that going after it with a sword—even one such as Excalibur—would do much to help anyone. Except maybe Mordred. Merlin had to do something…

And he did.

Merlin extended his own hand as well and began to shout furiously at the wall of sharp stones that was barreling in his direction. Nothing happened. There was fear on his face, and his face—so very white beneath the blood that leaked from his wound—looked ghastly in its angry determination.

Then, the wall of stones slowed, and Merlin and Mordred each stood, arms outstretched at the wall, trying to take control by force of will alone. After a few seconds of this, the stones began to move again, but not as they had. They began to swirl around each other, the wall folding in on itself to resemble a funnel cloud of rocks. The miniature tornado switched directions and began to roar toward Mordred, who looked alarmed for a moment. Arthur was just beginning to wonder if this might be _it_ when he saw a few of the rocks drop out of the swirl. Mordred's face grew blank once more, and Arthur found himself looking frantically back at Merlin. He saw Merlin trying to apply pressure to his head wound with his free hand, leaning heavily on his left leg, and Arthur's heart sank. Whatever this spell was, it was taking a lot of Merlin's energy to maintain, and his injuries were beginning to take a toll on him.

Mordred backed away from the funnel cloud, scampering from side to side, drawing the tornado back and forth. Arthur understood. Mordred was trying to drain Merlin until Merlin couldn't keep it up anymore and Mordred would be free to finish him off.

Merlin looked as though he knew it. The desperation began to show. Teeth gritted and sweat dripping from his face, he planted both of his legs firmly on the ground and posed as though he was going to take an almighty jump. Arthur winced on his behalf as he saw Merlin's right leg begin to quiver immediately.

Merlin didn't seem to notice. With a lunge forward, the tornado dissipated back into the wall and slammed into Mordred. Both sorcerers fell to the ground, and Arthur had a bizarre urge to call for a time out.

Mordred recovered first. Merlin, still twitching a bit, was still climbing to his feet as Mordred stood as high as he could manage, covered in dust and tiny scratches. Looking straight up into the sky, Mordred said something.

Immediately, the clouds began to roil, turning black and brown and sickly green above their heads. Thunder crashed out, and flashes of lighting illuminated the courtyard as the storm began to build under Mordred's gaze and instruction. Distantly, Arthur wondered why it wasn't raining. He supposed that making it rain took more power and time than Mordred wanted to waste. It certainly sounded like something that would not be easy to do. And Mordred seemed more focused on the lightning, although he hadn't yet managed any bolts. So far, it had just been flashes, which was absolutely fine with Arthur. Neither he nor Merlin could really be struck by lightning if there were no _bolts_ to do the striking, and he didn't suppose that a man could really be _flashed_ to death. But Mordred wasn't averting his gaze from the ever-darkening sky, and his words began to flow faster.

Then, Merlin took what Arthur usually referred to as a "low blow." While Mordred was still mid-recitation and staring upward, Merlin blasted Mordred off of his feet, knocking him into the statue and befuddling him as he slid down. Unsporting it may have been, but Arthur wasn't complaining. The sky was nearly as black as it had been when Merlin had been coming back to life—no matter what he said—in the forest. Still, that didn't matter. What mattered was that Merlin could now stop the storm. He could return the weather to normal and the rest of the battle could proceed without the unnecessary complication of metereological mayhem.

Then, as he saw Mordred beginning to right himself and stand up straight once more, Merlin did something for which Arthur would never forgive him. He was so _sick_ of this happening...

Merlin looked up at the sky and said a single word.

Immediately, the heavens opened up and it began to pour.

Soon, all three of them were up to their ankles in black water. For once, Merlin and Mordred seemed as disoriented by the turn of events as was Arthur, and Arthur questioned the wisdom in Merlin's choice of retaliation. Emrys he might have been, but he didn't have some magical ability to see through sheets of rain. Merlin was as crippled as Mordred in this state. Although at least he had known that it was coming. Having done the stupid thing himself. He hoped that Merlin had a plan of some sort.

Arthur was beginning to wonder which of them would recover first and be able to strike the next blow when he saw Merlin extend a hand behind him, pointing at Arthur. Arthur had just enough time to hope that this was a harmless defensive spell that Merlin was about to cast when he felt himself blasted backward, up and over the steps hewn into the wall of the lowered courtyard. Of the two, each a foot in height, only the top half of the top step remained above the torrent. He landed hard, skidding backward on the stone of the corridor behind him with such speed that he felt the heat of the friction through his clothing, and his metal scabbard drew sparks from the stone.

Arthur pushed himself up off of the ground quickly and moved forward, wondering. Why had Merlin knocked him back _now?_ From the look of things, it wouldn't matter to Mordred if Arthur was another thirty feet away. Did Merlin want him out of the rain? That didn't make much sense. Merlin had to have more pressing issues on his mind than keeping Arthur dry. Although Merlin did still have a lingering fear of Arthur's battle gear rusting.

Arthur shook his head. Merlin must have had a good reason for wanting him up and out of the sunken courtyard. That didn't mean that Arthur couldn't _watch. _He ran, racing around the corner and slipping on the water that had splashed up onto the stones. He stopped only when he had a good view of the ongoing battle. A panorama. Whether he died or not, he wanted to see this.

Not that much battling had been going on while he had been choosing his place. From the look of things, Mordred and Merlin were still trying to orient themselves in the storm. From his position under the roof, Arthur could see everything clearly, both of them. Two young man, pale of skin and dark of hair, eyes flashing between blue and gold as they fought for what they believed in, skinny and determined and searching. The rain had washed the blood away from their faces, and with the wind whipping their hair about, it was for a moment difficult to tell them apart.

Neither Merlin nor Mordred seemed to be inclined to pay him any attention, and Arthur wondered suddenly if Morgana was going to drown. If she wasn't dead already, that is, he thought. Would she drown? He wondered if he ought to do something about that, although even he wasn't sure whether it was to make sure it _had_ or prevent it from happening at all. But that would mean stepping down into the battle, and Merlin clearly did not want him to descend those steps and rejoin them in what was slowly beginning to resemble a small lake rather than a courtyard. Besides, wasn't Morgana _supposed_ to die?

Then, Arthur stopped thinking about Morgana. His eyes were on the two sorcerers, knee deep in water.

They had found each other.

Arthur having been shoved away, Merlin turned his attentions back to Mordred, who had unfortunately placed Merlin in the storm before Merlin had caught sight of Mordred. Taking advantage of Merlin's unpreparedness, Mordred with a flash of golden eyes ripped the massive statue of the strange headless man off of his plinth and heaved him at Merlin. Arthur inhaled sharply, wanting to shout out a warning; with the rain and wind blowing directly into his face, how could Merlin possibly see it in time to duck?

But he did. Somehow, he did. Water sloshed up against him as the statue fell harmlessly in front of where he had been standing before he had hastily sloshed his way backward. With a shoving motion much like Merlin always used whenever he wanted to fling Arthur somewhere, although considerably more wildly and with less control than he'd been retaliating thus far, Merlin hit Mordred. Arthur assumed that it was Mordred's magic that kept him from flying backward and splitting open his head on the wall behind him; Arthur was always tossed like a rag doll when Merlin did that to him, and he was a lot bigger than Mordred.

But Mordred didn't fly backward.

He did, however, fall down. Stumbling backward and looking so much like Merlin in the moment of ungainliness, he fell on his backside, throwing his hands down behind him to try to brace himself. With a splash, Mordred was on his back in the water, and all that Arthur could see of him was his knees, bent and jutting up from where Mordred must have been lying on the bottom. There was a stream of bubbles followed by a sudden dip, and Arthur knew that Mordred had just inhaled water.

Merlin moved faster than Arthur would have considered him capable, even after all this time. He leapt atop the torso of the toppled statue. Taking half a second to find his footing, Merlin swayed atop his stone platform, tore his gaze away from Mordred's knees, and looked down at the rising waters below him.

He never said a word. That's what Arthur would remember most clearly. Merlin's lips never moved. _He_ barely moved. But he lowered his arms, flattening his palms so that his fingers—so very steady—were parallel to the black torrent beneath them. Then, his eyes glowed.

And the world turned to ice.

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**Sorry for the length!**

**Please review! **


	24. Stasis

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine**.

In a way, it was beautiful.

The sky that had, only moments before, been black and gray and green, illuminated by the occasional flash of lighting, was white. It also seemed somewhat…lower than the sky usually was. The sky over their heads almost looked as though a patch of thick white clouds had just been sewn hastily over the stormclouds that had dumped water down upon them with such fury that their courtyard had all but filled in only a few minutes, creating an icy sieve.

The wind had all but stopped. What had been blowing the rain in all directions and had all but knocked Merlin from his perch on the statue when he had…done what he had done…turned into what could have been little more a breeze.

The rain had stopped as well, in a way. It was still precipitating_,_ but the sheets of water had stopped pouring down into the courtyard. The drops had turned into snowflakes, as thick and as fluffy as the raindrops had been fat and heavy. The snowflakes floated more than they fell, Arthur thought, watching them swirl up and down and all around before they finally touched the ground and began to form a soft padding of white below.

Although, Arthur reminded himself, they weren't really landing on the ground, were they? The ground was buried beneath a foot and a half of what appeared to be solid ice. This had been no slow freezing process, as when ponds froze to ice from the surface down. The water had turned entirely into ice in an instant. It had been eerie…the torrent had been black, but the water had apparently frozen so quickly that it was as clear as glass beneath the carpet of snow that was beginning to coat it utterly. Everything was so quiet…yes, in a way, it was beautiful.

In another way, it was horrifying. He could not help himself from staring at the pair of skinny knees, sticking out from the ice and trembling. For a few moments, the knees were the only things other than the snow that were moving.

Merlin hadn't moved since he'd done whatever it was that he'd done that had turned everything to ice. If he hadn't begun shivering, Arthur would have almost believed that the rainwater that had been all over his body had rendered him frozen solid to the statue just as Mordred was frozen in the ice. He was so still…Arthur had known him for most of a decade, and it was a rarity to see Merlin sitting quietly and without fidgeting for very long. Yet now he stood, motionless, staring at the world that he had frozen.

Arthur spared Merlin another glance. In the absence of the downpour, the wound on his face was beginning to bleed again. The gash that emerged out of his hairline and followed the line of his right cheekbone was oozing red once more, the only bit of color in the entire tableaux. Everything else was white. Even Merlin's clothing was faded.

Finally, Merlin moved. He jumped down from the statue. Sliding only once, he strode toward the immobilized Mordred, whose kneecaps were covered with tiny piles of snow. As he walked, snow fell upon his hair and began to melt, rivulets of water flowing down his cheeks like so many tears, save for where they met his wound and dripped pink. His expression was grim and determined and…disgusted with, from what Arthur could decipher, himself.

Then Arthur looked back at Mordred, and he understood why. It was awful. Mordred's knees were all that was visible jutting out from the smooth perfection of the ice, looking so skinny and childlike as they began to wriggle back and forth helplessly. Arthur watched, unable to move, as Merlin made his way slowly toward the knees. He did not fall. Arthur waited, wondering how Merlin was going to do it. Would he say a spell? Or would he get rid of the ice wordlessly, just as how he'd frozen it? Would he just grab Mordred, now safely immobilized, by the knee and try to drag him out of it?

Merlin went to Mordred's side, looking grimly down at the young form. Arthur leant against a pillar, still beneath his stone roof and out of the snow, curious and eager despite the seriousness of the situation. Mordred was so dangerous, he knew. How was Merlin going to get him out without opening himself up to attack? Merlin could do it, though. He was sure. Merlin could do it. He was just evaluating the situation, picking his method.

Still, Arthur thought he probably ought to hurry up.

Then, Merlin sat down. Swallowing hard, Merlin brushed the snow off of Mordred's kneecaps before hanging his head.

Snow began to gather in his hair.

Arthur saw as Merlin hugged his knees to his chest and looked down at the ice, protecting his face from the snowflakes that fell upon his head.

The world was silent.

The only movement was from the snowflakes, beautiful and thick and slow.

Merlin closed his eyes.

And then Arthur realized.

Merlin wasn't going to do anything.

Merlin wasn't going to do anything, and for an instant, Arthur wondered if he knew Merlin at all. He was trapping a what was little more than a _child_ alive under the ice and leaving him there. What did it matter if it was Mordred? What a dreadful way to die…

"Merlin," Arthur croaked. Merlin didn't give any indication that he'd heard. Arthur supposed that it was possible that the snow had muffled his voice, but he found it far more likely that Merlin was ignoring him. He considered going out there, onto the ice, to shake Merlin into speaking to him, to force him to explain himself, to beg him to explain why there could possibly be no other way. But as he looked down at the ice, he found that he couldn't do it. He couldn't just _walk_ on the ice, not when Mordred was…

"Merlin," he said again.

"It won't be long, Arthur," said Merlin, his voice so carefully casual that Arthur almost didn't hear the despairing thickness in it. He did not look up as he spoke. "It won't take long. I'm surprised it's taken _this_ long. Mordred inhaled water, and I froze it all. With ice in his throat and his lungs, he won't last. It won't be long now. This ice won't melt."

Arthur didn't know what he ought to say to that. Ostensibly, he ought to be glad. This had been Mordred's last stand. He was dying. His end was coming. He was being smothered to death from inside with _ice…_

"Isn't there another way?" he whispered.

Merlin still didn't look up. "How else would you have me do it?"

The knees wriggled.

"Any other way," answered Arthur desperately, wanting it all to be different or done. "You planned this, didn't you?"

He must have planned it. It wouldn't make any sense otherwise. When Merlin had opened the heavens and started the downpour, Arthur hadn't understood. The blinding rain had crippled the vision of both Mordred _and_ Merlin. Yet, as the courtyard had begun to fill, Merlin had flung Arthur out of it. He hadn't wanted Arthur to be frozen as well…

"You planned this," Arthur murmured again.

"And what of it?" demanded Merlin, suddenly angry and finally looking up. "What of it? I had to do it somehow, and this way was the safest. You knew that it had to be done. Mordred is a powerful sorcerer. Did you honestly think that I'd come out of this with clean hands? Sorcerers don't use swords, Arthur. How else would you have me do this?"

Arthur bit his lip, grateful that Merlin was looking at him. Even with his eyes blazing and his wound weeping and his lips trembling, Merlin's face was far better to look at than at Mordred's knees. "Couldn't you…"

"_What?"_

"Just…take away his powers?" Arthur's voice sounded pathetic in its pleading, even to him.

"No, Arthur."

"You did it before. You told me. You took away Morgana's when she was trying to kill us in the throne room."

Merlin shook his head. "Temporarily. And that was…that was complicated. And _Mordred_ is not Morgana."

"Is there no other way?" Arthur whispered, dreadfully sad.

Merlin just looked at him, then back at Mordred. Snow had accumulated on Mordred's kneecaps again, and Merlin brushed them clean again, using his sleeve to clear all of the white away.

Arthur's heart broke, just a little bit, with that tiny gesture. Merlin was taking this just as hard as Arthur was. Probably worse. Merlin, for all of his hard words and the ruthlessness of what he had done, saw that Mordred was still a child in so many ways and remembered that scared little Druid boy that they had rescued all of those years ago. This was an act that Merlin would carry with him for the rest of his life.

An act that _had_ dirtied his hands.

An act necessitated by Arthur's dragging him on a quest upon which he had not been summoned.

An act done for Arthur's protection.

An act that Arthur needed done.

An act that Arthur could not have done.

So Arthur jumped down onto the ice and slid his way over to sit next to Merlin. If there was real blame to be allotted for Mordred's death, it was not Merlin's to bear alone. Arthur's job was to protect Camelot; Merlin's was to protect Arthur. They had together trapped Mordred under the ice. Even if Arthur would have preferred a different method.

It was soon done.

Neither spoke for a long time. Arthur couldn't have said for Merlin, but if Merlin was feeling anything like he was, he felt no cold. Arthur just felt…empty. As though he knew that he ought to be distraught, wailing and gnashing his teeth and weeping at his own ruthlessness, questioning his morality and questioning his right to make the judgment that he had and questioning what he had dragged his friend into.

But he didn't.

He knew that he ought to be putting himself in Mordred's place, imagining how it felt on his skin to be trapped within ice, wondering if he'd known what was happening to him or if he didn't have time to do anything other than die, wondering how it felt to have ice in his throat, wondering if it was possible to feel that his lungs were filled with ice, trying to feel what Mordred have felt.

But he didn't.

He knew that he probably ought to be counting his sins, wondering if there was any justice in killing a youth if that youth would have killed him, wondering if he should have tried talking to him longer before he had unleashed Merlin on him, wondering just how frightened he should be of what an unleashed Merlin truly looked like, wondering if the world wouldn't be a better place if there was no such thing as magic, wondering if they could ever truly come back from this.

But he didn't.

He just…sat there on the ice, feeling the what few rays of watery sunshine that filtered from the white sky prickling at the hairs on the back of his neck as he stared down at the unmelting ice, feeling water trickle down his cheeks as snowflakes melted in his hair, feeling the snow mound in tiny piles around him as he didn't move. But there was no cold. It wasn't until the barely visible sun began to go down, sinking into the castle and out of the sight of the courtyard that he began to shiver. He found himself standing up and brushing himself free of the snow that had accumulated all over his body, feeling vaguely like a dog as he tried to shake himself clear, knowing that he'd be wet and cold even when he was freed of his snowy blanket.

He looked at Merlin, who remained sitting. He would have wondered if he ought to say something comforting or helped Merlin to his feet if he had not been so offended to see that Merlin was _steaming._ Snow had _not_ accumulated all over _his_ stupid skinny sorcerous body. Only the places where he touched the ice seemed to be affected by the cold, hands and feet and seat and a few splotches here and there. No wonder Merlin wasn't shivering. He was _cheating_. Although Arthur had the feeling that it had been an unconscious reaction.

"It's over," said Arthur. It was a strange feeling. They'd been so frantic and so desperate and so harried in their attempts to reach this destination as quickly as possible, flying on a dragon and falling off of a dragon and fighting and lying and confessing, that for it to be _over…_were they suppose to just go home? The battle had happened so quickly and he had been such a nonentity in the whole thing that he felt like there still had to be something to be done. And it was so _quiet…_somehow, Arthur had imagined the conclusion of this battle always ending in fire and destruction. Not a beautiful silent stillness. It felt so…incomplete. And yet it was over. The stillness was absolute. "It's over."

"It looks that way," said Merlin, standing up and stepping _over_ Mordred's knees to make his way out of the courtyard in what Arthur considered a movement of appallingly morbid casualness. Merlin wiped the ice crystals and snow off of his hands onto his pants as he walked.

Something about Merlin's tone was strange. "What do you mean?" asked Arthur, stepping around the knees and following Merlin off of the ice. When he stepped back up onto the stone, he shuddered at the immediate change in temperature. Had it really been that warm under cover of stone before?

Merlin sighed and walked over toward the doorway from which they had entered when they had first arrived. Their bags were waiting. It was odd. Arthur didn't remember dropping them. "It's just…look, Arthur, there's something important that I never told you."

"Ah, good," Arthur muttered, watching Merlin fiddle with one of their bags. "Another something to add to the list of important things that you've never told me."

"I'm serious," Merlin insisted, pulling a dry shirt from Arthur's pack and throwing it at him.

Arthur caught it, dimly thinking that they seemed to fall back into servant/king interactions whenever something particularly mind-boggling occurred. Or maybe Merlin had noticed that Arthur was numb in rather more ways than had to do with the cold. Arthur took off his soaked jacket and threw to the ground in front of him, where it landed with a heavy smack. "Alright, what haven't you told me about?"

"There was more than your life that was prophesied," said Merlin, yanking a pair of socks and trousers out of the bag and tossing them at Arthur. His arms tangled in his shirt, he allowed them to fall to the ground.

"What do you mean?" asked Arthur, his voice muffled through his shirt before he managed to poke his neck through the proper hole. "Other than that 'one half of the same coin' rubbish that you tout at me whenever you think that I'm being mean?"

"_Yes," _said Merlin tetchily, looking up from where he had been running his hand over the damp spots of his own clothes, drying them magically in what Arthur suspected had been a deliberately timed move while Arthur's vision had been obstructed. "There was more about you than your destiny to unite Albion."

"I gathered that," retorted Arthur, beginning to strip the rest of his wet clothes. Merlin didn't bother batting an eye and just leant against a pillar, looking distant and thoughtful. Arthur paid him no mind. All sense of propriety between them had been lost ages ago. They'd seen each other in far more embarrassing situations, and Merlin _had_ dressed him for nearly a decade. "I have been listening, you know."

"It's just…" began Merlin, but he cut himself off as Arthur hurled his boots at him, one by one. "What am I meant to do with these?"

"Dry them."

"Dry them yourself. I'm not your servant anymore, remember?"

"You have _magic,_ you're already dry, and I don't feel like walking around in wet boots for the next three days. I'm just going to soak all of my socks and you _know_ how I feel about the squishy sound of walking in wet shoes."

Merlin rolled his eyes and looked at Arthur's boots, which began to steam as Merlin began to speak again. "Your destiny…your _other _destiny that I havent told you about…it's just that…"

"Mordred was meant to kill me," said Arthur flatly, working his belt out of his wet trousers and putting it back on himself. "Right?"

"Oh," said Merlin, looking taken aback. "Yes."

"Shouldn't you be celebrating right now? I'm alive and he's not. Congratulations, you thwarted destiny."

Merlin scowled and threw one dry boot at Arthur. He bit his lip. "Arthur…"

The boot smacked Arthur in the elbow as he fiddled with reattaching his scabbard to his belt, having had to remove it in the transfer. Thankfully, he remembered to remove the sword first. "What?" he asked, annoyed.

Merlin averted his gaze and focused on Arthur's other boot. "For all of the times that I have tried to 'thwart destiny,' as you put it, I truly hope that this is the one time that it holds. But…"

Something in Merlin's voice gave Arthur pause, and he stopped trying to dress himself. Knowing that he probably cut a ridiculous figure as he stood in his socks, wearing a swordless scabbard, and what he now realized was a backwards shirt, Arthur waited, watching Merlin until Merlin looked at him. When Merlin finally met his gaze again, Arthur consented to speak. "But what?"

"If you ever get any signs of him again, of Mordred…"

"What?" prompted Arthur, pulling his arms out of his sleeves and trying to turn his shirt frontways without removing it altogether. He wanted to watch Merlin's expression, and struggling with a tunic would almost certainly obstruct his vision for a minute or two. "Would you _please_ start completing your sentences?"

Merlin scowled and threw Arthur's other boot at him, smacking him in the leg. "Just let me know, okay?"

"…If I see signs of Mordred?" asked Arthur, almost amused as he slid his arms back into their proper sleeves, pleased with his success at clothing himself. If Merlin was going to try to lighten the mood with jokes, he wouldn't have thought that he would do so while pelting Arthur with articles of clothing.

"I mean it, Arthur," said Merlin, crossing his arms over his chest.

Arthur was slightly taken aback at Merlin's seriousness. "I thought that you said that people didn't come back when they died."

"They don't," said Merlin. "But…"

"But what?" Arthur prompted again, too curious now to yell at him again for speaking in incomplete sentences.

"I've tried to deny destiny before," Merlin responded earnestly. "All that I've ever managed to do is delay it."

Arthur didn't understand. "So?"

"_So,_ just…keep your eyes open," Merlin instructed, his mouth twitching a bit as Arthur began to hop, trying to put a boot back onto his foot without sitting down.

"If you're so worried," said Arthur absently, breathless with exertion. "Why don't you dig him out and, I don't know, chop his head off?"

Merlin stared at him, all mouth twitchiness gone. "You want me to dig that boy that I just smothered to death in ice in a way that I would not wish on my worst…well, that I would not wish on _anyone_, and now you want me to dismember him? No! You want him chopped up, you go right ahead."

Well, when he phrased it like _that,_ it just sounded bad, Arthur thought, stamping his foot on the ground to get the boot properly on. "I'll pass on that," he said, trying to keep his tone light and taking up his second boot so that he would not have to look Merlin in the eye. He didn't particularly want to think about what was trapped under the ice just yet.

He also didn't like chopping the heads off of people, alive or dead. What few field executions that he'd done in his life had almost always involved either the heart or the throat. He'd always felt that it was bad enough that he was ending someone's life. He could afford them some semblance of dignity in death.

Now that he thought about it, he'd appreciate some dignity of his own. Having figured it out with the previous, Arthur made it into his second boot quickly. Feeling much more comfortable now that he was clean and dry, he looked at Merlin, who had spread Arthur's discarded wet clothing out on the white brick and was surveying them with a seriousness that made Arthur absolutely certain that Merlin was flashing back to his days as manservant. After a moment, Merlin's eyes glowed, and all of Arthur's wet clothes began to steam. Arthur marveled, unsure whether he was impressed with Merlin's domestic magic or annoyed that Merlin had been able to do this all along and made him deal with damp clothes for years.

Then, he noticed. Merlin had not laid out _all_ of Arthur's wet clothes. His jacket still lay in a wet heap in front of him.

"Merlin?"

"Hmm?"

"You forgot my coat," said Arthur blandly, trying not to sound too demanding. After all, Merlin _wasn't_ his servant. Technically, he was doing Arthur a favor drying his clothing.

But would it _really_ have been so difficult to add his jacket to the pile of clothes that were already steaming it front of them?"

"I did not," said Merlin, sounding offended, and Arthur took a moment to wonder at how bizarre this all was. Merlin had just smothered a young man to death with ice, and now he was offended at the implication that he was not paying due attention to a wet coat.

"It's still wet," Arthur pointed out.

Merlin sighed and put his hands on his hips. Arthur tried not to laugh.

"Arthur, you have never done laundry. You don't understand. The fabric of this cloth? It can't just be steam dried. Drying it too fast would affect the shape and fit."

"What's steam dried?"

Merlin rolled his eyes. "For heaven's sake…it's what I used to do with your shirts to take the wrinkles out when I left them crumpled overnight. I would wet them and then hang them over the pots in the kitchen. The steam would take out the wrinkles, and then the shirts would dry quickly after I took them down."

"_That's_ why my clothes used to smell like chicken?"

"They didn't _always_ smell like chicken. _Anyway,_ I could never do that with the stuff that you had made out of _that_ fabric. It's made of something awful like fawn hide or something equally barbaric. I have to let it hang dry." He was speaking very quickly and a bit too energetically.

"You're absolutely serious with this," said Arthur, incredulous.

"Yes! After all of the nonsense that we've dealt with on this quest, the last thing that needs to happen is for your jacket to be ruined."

"So we have to wait for my jacket to dry naturally? _That_ is what's going to delay us? You're serious?"

"You made us delay plenty of times."

"You mean when you were on the verge of death and wanted to keep going anyway? Yes, that was horrible of me. I clearly have no conscience," said Arthur.

"Well, just so you know, the jacket might be ruined anyway. _Why_ you had to wear the light one today—especially considering that you insisted on bringing _two_—is beyond me," said Merlin, still sounding manic.

"It was hot out!"

Merlin heaved a disproportionate sigh and began to examine the jacket more closely with what Arthur deemed a bit too much determination. "It doesn't matter. You just have to know that this jacket might well be done for, even if we do let it dry properly."

"For heaven's sake, Merlin, if it's a useless cause, what are you _doing?"_

Merlin gave a very sad little smile, and Arthur wondered if his question had landed on a larger issue than his wet coat. "Stalling."

Arthur suddenly grew very cold, dry clothes aside. "What do you mean?"

As if he had read Arthur's mind, Merlin lit—or was it conjuring? Arthur still wasn't clear on how it all worked—a fire on the stone, apparently not needing any sort of fuel.

"It's not important right now," said Merlin, hanging Arthur's coat on a window frame-adjacent to the fire-that had lost its glass long ago. He spread the sleeves and sides out as carefully as he could. "That's the best that I can do for now, I think. It'll dry on its own soon enough. We can't leave now anyway."

"And why is that?" Arthur grouched, not understanding Merlin's methods of coat drying and definitely not wanting to linger. He wanted to leave this place. Besides, the deserted castle was huge. There were plenty of empty rooms. Why on earth would they want to stay _here?_

Merlin stared at him, then shrugged. "Two reasons."

"And what are those?"

"For one thing, it'll be dark soon, and I don't think that stumbling around this castle and then out into the moat of dead people in pitch black would be a very good idea."

"But you can light your hand on fire—"

"Anyway," Merlin interrupted. "That's not the important reason. There's something that we both forgot to deal with, although with this ice of mine, there should still be time."

"Time for what?" asked Arthur, annoyed at Merlin's cryptic phrasing.

"Right now, you have a decision to make, and quickly."

"About what?"

Merlin nodded over Arthur's shoulder at the ice. "Morgana."

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**Almost done! Probably only two or three more chapters, and maybe an epilogue. **

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	25. And Then There Were None

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine.**

She was still alive.

Merlin wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed by the fact. He'd half believed that they would cross the ice and look down at her and she would be gone. The choice would have been taken away from them, and she would have been remembered regrettably as collateral damage in the battle against Mordred. It would have been convenient. Morbidly and disgustingly convenient. But convenient all the same.

Merlin hadn't tried to kill her. Honestly, he'd forgotten that she was there when he'd opened the heavens. He'd been so focused on Mordred. If Morgana _had_ died in the ice as Mordred had, it would have truly been an accident. As it was, her head had been above the water when he'd frozen it. It would have taken away from them the awful choice that was before them, but he didn't know if he could have lived with the fact that he would have caused the deaths of _two_ people in the manner of Mordred's. The way that his knees had moved…

When they'd taken her from the ice, Merlin melting into rainwater a small pool around her and Arthur pulling her out, Merlin had thought that she _was_ dead. She was so pale and so very cold to the touch…but she was breathing. She didn't wake, no matter how they jostled her as they lowered her onto the brick of the floor adjacent to the courtyard. Merlin was beginning to believe that she wouldn't wake at all unless they did something.

And therein lay the problem. The doing something. Was there something that they ought to do? Or ought they do nothing and…let matters take their course? Or was there some else, something worse, that they owed it to who she had once been to do? Oh, why couldn't she have just been _dead…_

What made him feel even worse was how he intended for whatever was going to happen to happen. Arthur wouldn't understand. Not really. Not why Merlin was so certain. This was just one of those scenarios when Merlin _felt_ the way that events had to unfold, a tingling that told him that he had to step back. He just _knew._ But he also knew that Arthur would probably not be so impressed by the explanation of how being "Emrys" automatically excused what Merlin intended. Arthur was just so _not_ magical…Merlin hoped that he could understand. He needed Arthur to understand.

He needed Arthur to understand that _he_ would have to be the one to do it.

"Merlin," said Arthur, sounding very young as they crouched on either side of the fallen sorcerer. "What do we do?"

Merlin took a deep breath. "Arthur, I'm truly sorry for this. But whatever is going to happen is going to be your decision. I'll take no part."

Arthur just looked at him, and Merlin felt guiltier than he could remember ever feeling. "What do you mean?"

"Morgana's life is in your hands," Merlin said, trying to speak as firmly as possible without sounding insensitive to what he was asking of Arthur. "I have enough blood on mine today."

"You don't want to…deal with Morgana because of Mordred?" he asked, looking as though he was trying very hard to follow Merlin but was having trouble tracking.

Merlin sighed, wishing that he could explain. "Mordred was my responsibility. Mordred was _my_ choice. Morgana is your sister. She's wronged you far more than she has me. She is _your_ choice."

Arthur's brow puckered. "I thought that _you_ were meant to be her doom. That's what she said."

Merlin shook his head. "I trapped her in the ice. Whatever decision you make, whatever happens, I had a hand in it. But this is your choice."

Arthur nodded, his expression bleak and desperate. Merlin wasn't sure if Arthur was really hearing what he was telling him.

"We don't look alike, you know," said Arthur.

Merlin bit his lip. He thought that he knew where this was going. "I know, Arthur."

"We look so different. When we were children, even when we went places together without dressing as nobles, no one ever thought that we were siblings. Granted, our accents were a bit different, especially when we were little and she hadn't spent so many years in Camelot, but you see two children going everywhere together, doing everything together, of similar age…you'd think that they were siblings. But she's so pale, even when she's not frozen like this. Her hair is so _dark._ And me…well, they didn't exactly have to use their imaginations very much when they called me the Golden Prince. No one ever even guessed. But she was my sister before I even knew she was my sister. But then, she never tried to kill me until she found out that she actually was my sister. Oh, why doesn't this make any sense…"Arthur rambled, staring down at Morgana, and Merlin flinched at his own heartlessness. He always forgot about how close Morgana and Arthur had been as children before he'd come to Camelot, and now he was making Arthur do _this…_

"Although," said Arthur, laughing a bit. "At least I understand now why my father always so violently opposed marriage talks about the two of us. How uncomfortable that must have been for him! Not that it wasn't all his fault in the first place…"

"Arthur," Merlin said quietly.

Arthur decided not to hear him.

"Did I ever tell you about what happened when I got my first crown? You were there when I got my second, I think. But I got my first when I turned ten, and there was this endless ceremony with about a dozen different speeches, and all I wanted was the damn _crown,_ but my father looked so proud and the people looked so hopeful so I had to sit there and wait for them to have it all out. I finally got the thing on my head and was standing there as all of the people in attendance came forward to give their congratulations, as if I'd done a damn thing other than been born to a certain pair of parents. My father came up with Morgana on his arm—she couldn't have been more than twelve—and he talked about how I was the pride and joy of his heart, you know, all of the things that he always said whenever there was a ceremony or he was drunk or I was on my deathbed. And then Morgana says the little speech that she was taught, about how I was well on my way to becoming a king about whom the poets would write and singers sing and all of that rubbish. Then, after she said what she'd been told to say to me, she turns to my father and says out loud, 'When am I getting _my_ crown?'" Arthur laughed again. "She was so offended that she was older than I was, as though someone had skimped on her tenth birthday and forgotten to give her _her_ crown. Of course, I laughed and laughed and she glared and probably would have cried if she'd been any other little girl than Morgana and my father stood there, probably wishing that he never had children. But we were happy, that day."

Merlin nodded. He didn't know what else he could do. Arthur seemed like he needed to get all of this out before he made any decisions. If Arthur needed to stare at his sister and rhapsodize about their childhood, Merlin was just fine with letting that happen.

Abruptly, as though he had heard Merlin's thoughts and decided to immediately subvert them, Arthur turned to look at Merlin.

"She's killed so many people," he commented, almost casually. He kept looking at Merlin, and Merlin gathered that he was hoping for a response.

There was only one that he could think of.

"Yes," Merlin said simply. This was a hellish situation that Arthur was in, but Merlin wasn't going to sugarcoat Morgana's crimes. Her victims deserved better.

"She's tortured and tormented," Arthur continued.

"Yes." Merlin was beginning to think that Arthur just needed to say these things aloud, to hear them affirmed, to make whatever he did okay. And these were statements that Merlin could affirm wholeheartedly. He'd always hate himself on some level because of how he had poisoned her, but she had done so much that could not have been excused by that awful thing that he had done. She could hardly blame her circumstances for all of the evil that she had done.

"If she hadn't been stopped, back whenever she would take my throne, she would have kept killing and torturing and tormenting until she ran out of subjects to kill, torture, and torment," said Arthur thoughtfully, looking back down at Morgana.

"Probably, yes."

"She burnt crops and homes and shops."

"Yes."

"She can't ever be trusted."

"Yes."

"She's so powerful…"

"Yes, she is."

"Merlin?" asked Arthur, looking up at his friend, his face settled.

"Yes, Arthur?"

"Leave me."

Merlin was taken aback. Whatever Arthur was going to do, Merlin had figured that he'd be a witness. Propriety aside, he was vaguely uncomfortable leaving Arthur alone with a dying Morgana and a dead Mordred. It just seemed like a bad idea. Arthur had been overwhelmed already. They both were. No, he'd assumed that he would be there. He assumed that it would be as heavy on his conscience as it was on Arthur's.

"Would…" he began, then took a deep breath. "Would you like me to wake her for—"

"Please," said Arthur. "Just…leave me."

Merlin left.

At first, he wasn't sure where he ought to go. If he wandered through the castle, he was likely to get lost. It all looked the same now that they weren't stalking the corridors, searching for their enemy. It occurred to him now that he might have been drawn to Mordred's power and so had had a fairly easy job of finding him. He wouldn't even really be able to use any statues for landmarks. None of them had heads.

And Merlin didn't like thinking about the headless statues.

He walked. He didn't aim or try to pick out the way that they'd gone on their way in. He figured that he'd probably overthink it anyway. So what if he got lost? It wasn't as though he was in any danger of anything beyond tripping over some debris. Even the darkness wouldn't be particularly daunting. He didn't exactly require a torch.

Still, after a few minutes, he found himself at the entrance of the castle. He almost smiled. He wouldn't have found his way out if he'd tried, but of course he'd managed to meander himself out of the maze. He trotted through the archway and sat himself down on the steps that led out toward the moat turned crypt. He figured that this was as good a place as any to wait. Besides, if Arthur got it into his head that he wanted to escape without having to face Merlin, he wouldn't be able to sneak his way out. And it just felt good to have clean and open air on his face.

Merlin waited.

It was nearly two hours before he saw Arthur, but the king finally emerged from the darkness. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur very gently lay something on the floor behind them. He saw down heavily next to Merlin, hung his head, and Merlin knew.

Merlin didn't say anything. He didn't place a hand on Arthur's shoulder. He didn't pat him on the shoulder. He didn't even look at him. He didn't dare acknowledge the king. Merlin knew that if he gave any sort of kind gesture at this moment, Arthur would break.

So they sat.

Merlin never found out how Arthur had done it. He never asked. He even didn't know if Arthur would have told him if he had.

They sat.

And they sat.

They sat until they couldn't sit anymore, because there were things to do and they needed to be done before either of them thought about it too much.

Merlin offered to make the fire, citing ability and ease and wanting this to be over as quickly as possible, but Arthur refused. Instead, the king spent hours making trips back and forth from the forest through which they'd spent so many hours trekking. He was gathering wood, assembling the pyre on his own, right in front of the archway that led into the castle that had been the end of so very much. He wouldn't let Merlin help, and when he lifted Morgana from the stone floor, he was more gentle than Merlin had ever seen him.

Arthur lit the fire himself, taking Merlin's flint and striking his fingers bloody. Unaccustomed to doing it himself, it took him several clumsy tries with unsteady fingers to draw a spark from the stones. But he managed.

And Morgana burnt.

It didn't take very long, all things considered.

They stood motionless the whole time, watching. After the fire finally began to die away, Arthur roused himself.

"Let us never speak of her again," he said quietly, watching curls of smoke rise up from the place where he had lain his sister.

Merlin remembered the look on Morgana's face when she'd realized that she'd been poisoned. How she had tried to push him away. How she had relented because she didn't want to die alone. He remembered how frightened Mordred had been when they had first met. How Kilgarrah had warned him of what Mordred would become, but how he couldn't see anything beyond the scared little boy. How Mordred's knees had wriggled back and forth as he froze. Merlin remembered everything.

"Let us never speak of any of this again," he said.

There was silence for a moment.

"Merlin," said Arthur, and Merlin looked at him for the first time since he had ignited the fire to find that Arthur was facing him as well. "What have we done?"

He sounded dreadfully sad.

"What we had to," answered Merlin, hating the weakness of the words that came out of his mouth.

"'What we had to," Arthur echoed thoughtfully. "Was there truly no better solution?"

"Not for us, I think," said Merlin, wanting Arthur to see that he didn't know what they were doing any better than Arthur did. "Not if we wanted to…win."

Arthur nodded and rubbed his eyes. "Do you think that we'll ever escape from this? From what we've done?"

Merlin just shrugged. "No."

"Why not?" asked Arthur curiously. There was no anger, no condemnation in his voice. Not even any disagreement. Just that same quiet knowledge that there was no going back. Two sides of the same coin…Merlin thought that maybe Arthur was finally understanding what that really meant. "Why not?"

"There is nothing more damning than a destiny denied," said Merlin, very quietly.

"Nothing?" asked Arthur, a ghost of a smile on his face as he looked back at the embers. "I don't know about that."

"Yeah," said Merlin, his eyes closed, remembering the cold.

He shivered, wishing that there was more to say. It was so desolate in this place. The pitch blackness of night that surrounded them rendered almost eerie the whiteness of the castle at their backs, the utter silence broken only by the cracklings of the dying fire. They couldn't see much of anything beyond the moat of skeletons, save for the ghostly images of the distant ruins of what had been the great city. The world felt so small and yet so vast at the same time that Merlin wanted to yell out and see how far his voice would travel.

Then, before Merlin could do something rash and probably more alarming than either of them needed by that point, Arthur spoke.

"Are you ready to go home?" he asked, sounding exhausted.

"Yes," Merlin replied immediately. He was. It felt like it had been _ages_ since he'd been anywhere that felt like home. It hadn't been more than two weeks that they'd been gone, but those had been two weeks filled with near death experiences and arguments and illnesses and unhappy endings. He wanted to go back to Camelot and sleep in his bed and eat at a table and see his friends and spend time in friendly company. Arthur was his greatest friend, but they had had a tough couple of weeks. They could use some fresh company. They had been each other's only source of kindness, and even that had stretched a few times. Yes, he was ready to go home.

Then, he remembered.

"No, I'm not," he said. "There's something that I need to do."

Arthur was either too tired to wonder or he heard enough in Merlin's tone to understand that this was not something that Merlin particularly wanted to discuss, and he said nothing. Merlin was grateful. He took Arthur's knife and cut a long strip away from the hem of his shirt. Jumping down into the pit of bones, Merlin stood up on his toes and tied it carefully around one of the lines of ribbons, hung long ago by the Druids to honor the dead. The faded red fabric contrasted starkly with the ribbons, ghostly pastel and rendered stiff from exposure, as it fell limply in their midst. It was a poor addition, Merlin had to admit. But it was all that he had.

"Be at rest," Merlin whispered. He ducked his head and closed his eyes for a moment.

Then, without looking back, he climbed out and yelled for Aithusa, certain that the white dragon would be able to come fetch them where they stood. After all, he thought, there was no more darkness in this place.

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**Thank you for reading! There's only one chapter left, and maybe an epilogue. The heavy stuff is finally out of the way. **

**Reviews are always extremely appreciated! **


	26. For Tomorrow We May Die

**Disclaimer: _Merlin_ is not**** mine**.

It had been an interesting homecoming.

They had stumbled into the courtyard of the citadel of Camelot, weaving back and forth and apparently looking distinctly worse for the wear. The guards had certainly not recognized them.

It hadn't helped that they'd spent the final day of their quest _walking_ again. Aithsua had begun to fly lower and lower as he'd carried them away from the white castle. Merlin eventually persuaded the dragon to admit that he was tired, which led Merlin to immediately forsake his and Arthur's safety for the sake of giving the damn creature a break.

Arthur actually hadn't minded nearly so much as he'd exclaimed. Aithusa _had_ done them a great service by flying them all over the place, and while he _had_ dropped them a few times, Arthur supposed that perhaps adolescent dragons just did that from time to time. He wasn't entirely sure how the ages of dragons and humans correlated, but he knew that _he_ hadn't been a vision of grace during his pubescent years. Besides, if Aithusa was growing tired, Arthur wasn't particularly anxious to risk another tumble off of his back. Aithusa wasn't the only magical creature who was exhausted, and Arthur didn't want to rely on Merlin to have to catch them every time they fell from the sky.

Aithusa had gotten them most of the way anyway, and Arthur had been trying to think of a tactful way to tell the white dragon that he didn't want him to deliver them directly to the castle. Friendly as Aithusa could be when he so chose, the people of Camelot had not yet forgotten the havoc wreaked upon them by the Great Dragon. It hadn't been _that_ long ago, and even Arthur was uncomfortable around Kilgarrah. He had tried to _kill_ the beast, after all.

So they had spent the last day walking, so tired of maneuvering themselves through unfriendly territory that they just forged their way through whatever happened to be in their way in the forest, not bothering to try to find a path. They wanted to get where they were going as soon as they could, and if that meant that they had to spent half an hour fighting through brambles, what did it matter? They were so sick of being careful that they would plow through anything and they were so sick of eating woodland delicacies that they were hungry to the point of nausea and they were so sick of each other that they didn't waste any breath to speak. Great friends they might have been, but Arthur had the feeling that both of them would probably have flipped on the other if it meant a hot bath and a hearty meal.

As it happened, trudging through the forest for a day, walking through streams and bushes and brambles and mysterious bogs that they hadn't wanted to examine too closely after spending four days on dragon back was enough to render a pair of men rather unrecognizable. Lacking mirrors and any inclination to look at himself for weeks now, Arthur had had no idea what he looked like. He saw Merlin—dirty, scratched, wounded, scabbed, wind-burnt, sun-burnt, fire-burnt, spotted with dried blood, bruised, scraped, tattered, smoke stained—and _knew_ that he looked terrible and that, having gone through the same ordeals as Merlin, he could hardly look any better. But he'd gotten so used to Merlin looking as though he had been caught in just about every natural disaster possible that his state of shabbiness didn't seem out of the normal. Besides, the only other people that they'd seen had been Mordred and Morgana. They hadn't been keeping particularly normal company. He just hadn't realized how out of place they would appear when they turned up back in civilization.

So he supposed that he really shouldn't have been offended when a few of the citizens of the lower town looked upon their king and his councilor and screamed before running back into their homes. He'd been too worn out to particularly care at the time, and it wasn't until the guards stopped them as they tried to make their way into the castle that he realized that no one recognized them.

Merlin had laughed until he cried, tears actually leaving trails down his cheeks as they washed away bits of the grime. Then he'd nearly vomiting and had to sit down with his head between his knees for a few minutes before he could contain himself again. They had come so far, he kept saying, and now _this..._

Arthur would have been annoyed and probably embarrassed by Merlin's display if he hadn't been so busy putting on a display of his own. He'd shouted. He'd shouted a lot and, in hindsight, he wasn't too surprised that there seemed to be more and more guards gathering around them the longer that he shouted. He _was_ brandishing Excalibur all over the place and declaring that he was Arthur Pendragon and he would have them all exiled if they didn't get out of the way, let him grab Merlin before the idiot found a way to give himself a hernia, and if they would just _find_ the queen then _she_ would tell them and in the meantime _he_ was going into _his_ damn castle.

He supposed that they did present a rather alarming pair. It was probably lucky that Merlin had been too busy giving himself a health crisis to take note of Arthur's waving of Excalibur and decide to start shooting fireballs to prove himself the sorcerer in question. They would have ended up stabbed.

Fortunately, it was only a few minutes before one of the guards recognized the sword and the blond hair and the voice of Arthur and the neckerchief of Merlin underneath all of the grim and ruddiness and had the presence of mind to fetch the queen.

It then occurred to Arthur that it was entirely possible that he _would_ be stabbed. He half hoped that she wouldn't recognize him and he'd be thrown into the dungeons for long enough for him to think of a sincere and apologetic and hopefully satisfying explanation for what he'd been doing over the past three weeks. It was almost too bad that neither he nor Merlin had any serious injuries. She'd have been too distracted by loving them to remember that she had to hate them for a decent interval of time.

But she came, and his heart ached immediately. She looked pale, he saw, and rather drawn, but she was so beautiful. She was so lovely and loving and loveable that if he had not been prevented by the swords of a dozen guards and an incredibly uncooperative body, he wouldn't have been able to stop himself from rushing to her and burying his face in her hair and holding her so tightly that it would be entirely possible that he'd never let her go.

She had rushed to him, recognizing him immediately behind the filth. She'd started crying, of course, from the moment that she saw him, and he found that he was crying as well and that it didn't even matter that people were looking because he was _home._ She held him close until she caught sight of Merlin and hurled herself at him in turn, taking him so by surprise that she knocked him over where he'd been sitting on the steps. Then, pulling them up to stand in front of her, side by side, she had looked them over in a slightly hysterical examination.

Arthur didn't learn until later that she had been checking for any of those serious injuries that would have been so convenient.

It took her a few moments. They _did_ look pretty bad, and neither seemed particularly inclined to stand up straight and give her a good view. He found that sagging was far more comfortable, and he and Merlin were soon leaning against each other even as they stood.

That gesture was apparently enough for the queen. Later, she would inform them that she'd been able to see past their double disappearing act when she was thinking of how dreadful they looked, but when they started leaning on each other, the dam had broken. They were teaming up on her _again,_ she'd felt, laughing as she related it.

There was no laughter for quite some time, however.

Fortunately, she'd contained herself well enough that she was able to drag them into an empty room before she let loose on them. Neither protested. They just hung their heads and listened and nodded and said "yes" and "no" and "I promise" and "you're right" and "it _was_ a bad idea, now that I think about it" and "I'm okay" and "nothing" and "it was all _his_ idea" and "it's okay" and "it's over" until she exhausted herself and excused them to get themselves cleaned up.

Merlin had been bewildered and clearly uncomfortable when Guinevere sent him to his chambers with a servant to help him. Merlin still had trouble remembering that his status was higher now that he was an official advisor to the king, and Arthur had not yet seen him give a proper order to any servants. They were always requests. But Guinevere had said that there was no way that either of them would be fit to be seen anytime soon unless they had help, so a manic Robert was summoned for Arthur, filling the king's ear with speeches about how very glad he was that he had returned and how it was wonderful that he was safe and if he required a companion for his next quest, Robert would be more than willing to step in for Merlin, against whom Robert had long nursed a bizarre grudge that no one seemed to understand.

And a servant was called for Merlin.

Arthur wasn't sure which of them looked more nervous. Merlin probably would have fetched bucket after bucket of his own bathwater—or maybe he could do something magical to make himself water—even as tired as he was, if it meant that he didn't have to have a servant serving him, and there were still so many people uncomfortable with magic. The young servant didn't look any happier than Merlin. He wondered vaguely as Robert bullied him into his bath whether Guinevere had done that on purpose. She still had the lingering taste of the servant's predilection for what Merlin called "petty revenges," which generally involved the sabotage of food or the selection of itchy clothing or any other trivial annoyance that a servant could do without getting him- or herself sacked. He had to admit that Guinevere did have some grounds for revenge on both of them.

When Arthur had finally lowered himself all the way into the hot water, he'd almost fallen asleep immediately, hardly even noticing that Robert had for some reason filled both the good bathtub and the backup. But what did it matter? The water was so warm and so nice and so safe and so _civil_ that he could have dropped off right away. But Robert would have none of it. Arthur would get properly _cleaned,_ and Arthur would have put up a fight if it didn't look as though Robert believed that his life depended on giving the king a thorough bathing. He did end up bringing Arthur food for him to ravage as he soaked, and Arthur found himself suddenly far more agreeable, even when he learned why Robert had prepared the second bath. Apparently, Arthur was so filthy that he had to get himself out of the first batch of dirty water and into the clean before he would actually be able to properly see his skin again. When he'd glanced back at the water, he saw that it was almost black, and after that Robert had a far easier time persuading Arthur to take the second bath.

When he was finally done, he'd found that he was having trouble getting himself out of the tub. He'd gotten so comfortable and his muscles had unwound after three weeks of tension that they felt like jelly when he had to go and use them again. Robert ended up having to heave Arthur out. He laid out a rather spectacular and distinctly kingly assortment of clothing to wear, no doubt celebrating Arthur's return to civilization, but Arthur had dismissed it all immediately in favor of trousers, boots, tunic, and coat. He didn't care if it was time for him to be the king again. He could dress the part tomorrow. That night, he wanted comfort. He'd've gone down in his nightclothes if Robert hadn't nearly fainted when he'd joked of the inclination. The only ornament that Arthur wore was Excalibur.

When he slouched out of his chambers, leaving Robert to the joyless job of emptying the water, he was told that the queen was waiting for him in the council chambers. Trudging toward the council room and brushing away the guards who tried to accompany him, Arthur just hoped against hope that she would be alone. He didn't think that he could possibly handle anything even associated with his rule until he'd had a proper night's sleep.

When he entered, he didn't even see his wife at first. All he saw was the table. It was covered with all manner of food, meats and cheeses and fruits and vegetables and breads and puddings and _many_ flagons of drink that Arthur all but prayed were of the befuddling type. None of it seemed to be made of acorn.

Then, he saw Guinevere. As it happened, she was _not_ alone, but Arthur did not begrudge her the company. She sat at the head of the stable, her face prim, with Merlin at her left. He was staring down at a plate heaped with all sorts of food and, from the look on his face and Guinevere's severe expression as she looked at him, that the queen had chosen the servings and was going to glare at him until he ate himself healthy.

He was also very clean. Exhausted, but clean. Even beneath the ruddiness from the wind- and sun-burn, Merlin looked as pale as ever, and his hair wasn't matted to his scalp in sweat and rain and blood. The cut along the side of his face was still long and cruel, but it had been cleaned and looked far less gruesome. He was wearing clean clothes that still had all of the proper seams and threads intact. Only his neckerchief looked threadbare, but Arthur knew that Merlin would never wear any replacement neckerchiefs. His mother had made those neckerchiefs.

Arthur found himself stumbling over his feet as he entered the room, intoxicated by the smells. Merlin and Guinevere looked over as they heard him trip and watched as he sat himself down. Guinevere immediately threw a napkin at him and began piling food onto his plate. Arthur looked across the table at Merlin, bewildered. Merlin just looked at him bleakly.

"Hi, Arthur," he said, as though they hadn't spoken for ages. "I had a servant."

"Yeah?" asked Arthur, watching his wife add a second heaping of some kind of meat that was almost certainly _not_ squirrel to his plate. "How was it?"

"I didn't like it," said Merlin immediately. "I didn't need it. And he didn't like it any more than I did. I think he thought that I was going to turn his head into a turnip if he displeased me. By the way, I've discovered that ever since my magic came out as public knowledge, people have interpreted my insults rather differently. Turnip-head and cabbage-head seem to have taken on whole new meanings. Although no one has yet figured out what I do to turn someone into a dollop-head. Plus—"

"Merlin," said Guinevere sternly. "No talking. You, _eat._"

"I got food during my bath," Merlin protested, half-quailing under her gaze. "Is that normal? I never brought Arthur food during _his_ baths, but I didn't do a lot of the stuff that I was meant to do as Arthur's servant. It seemed strange, but I _was_ hungry, so—"

"Merlin. Eat."

With a dutiful nod, Merlin picked up a fork and looked unenthusiastically at the food. Arthur knew what was going through Merlin's head. They both had wildly different routines when they came back from their more grueling of quests. Arthur could have eaten everything in the castle kitchens. Merlin could only eat so much, needing to, as he phrased it, stretch out his stomach before he could inhale his food. Still, if he didn't start eating _something_, Guinevere looked as though she'd force feed him.

She soon finished loading Arthur's plate and she glared at him without a word until he too picked up a fork and began to eat.

It was silent for a long time. Merlin had stopped eating quickly, but Guinevere was apparently satisfied. Clearly becoming uncomfortable at sitting there while the queen guilted the king into eating and while still _very_ clearly not permitted to leave the room by the queen, he took hold of the pewter pitcher nearest him and filled a goblet. Seeing this, Arthur had the feeling that things would begin to get interesting.

He also had the feeling that he was growing jealous. Seizing a jug for himself, he poured.

After a while, even Arthur couldn't eat any more. Chancing a glance at his wife, who hadn't had a bite of food or a gulp of drink, he saw that her expression had softened. Taking this as a sign that he would be allowed to stop eating, he pushed his plate back and reached for the jug again. Whatever it was, it was tasty.

As he filled, he glanced across the table. He nearly smiled as he saw Merlin slumped back in his chair, goblet dangling precariously from his hand as he slept. Good for him, Arthur thought. They deserved sleep, and even the wooden chair had to be an improvement on the ground that had been their beds as of late.

"Arthur," said Guinevere softly, speaking to him in a voice that seemed to actually invite response for the first time since he'd returned. "Where did you go?"

Arthur put down his goblet and looked at his wife. She was so beautiful…

"Guinevere," he said seriously. "I don't know."

"How can you not know?" she asked, almost whispering, looking dreadfully sad.

He gave a short laugh. "Don't think that I'm not answering because I don't want to tell you. I don't know because I flew on the back of a dragon following an invisible magic path that I'm still not entirely sure that Merlin wasn't making up."

She stared at him for a moment. "You're actually serious, aren't you?"

He nodded. "I am. And honestly, I had my eyes closed for a lot of the time when we were on that dragon. This may sound obvious, but dragons can fly really _high,_ Guinevere."

She smiled at that. "Not a fan of dragon flight?"

He settled himself back in his chair, glad that this was going to be a real conversation. "Well, with regard to _speed,_ I am a huge fan. With regard to height and the very real possibility that you might fall off at any point, I am not so much a fan, no."

"Well," she said. "As _mad_ you've made me, I will say that I'm glad that neither one of you fell off of the dragon and died."

Arthur hesitated before he responded, unsure if he should correct her. Technically, they had _both_ fallen off of the dragon, but Arthur had only fallen a few feet and been immediately rescued by Merlin. And while Merlin _had_ actually plummeted to the ground and possibly died—Arthur still wasn't exactly clear on how that had worked—he was still very much alive, if asleep at the moment. Did Guinevere need to know that? Did she need to have to imagine in her head or dream in her dreams how both of them had had some rather close calls with the dragon?

She didn't, he decided. Not now. Maybe later, when it was all a bit more behind them. Now, he would just let her be glad that they both came back in one piece.

"Me too," he said.

"So you don't know _where_ you were," she said slowly. "But you got where you were going?"

Arthur nodded, knowing that he would have to tread carefully. "We did, yes. I don't know how. It was all Merlin and the dragon. Honestly, I'd still be wandering around in the outskirts of Camelot if it hadn't been for those two. Although, do me a favor and never tell Aithusa that I said that. We have a complicated relationship, he and I."

"Aithusa?"

"Oh," said Arthur, almost laughing. "Sorry. I'm not used to being the one who _has_ the magical knowledge and talking at someone who had no clue. It's really annoying isn't it?"

"Aithusa, Arthur? What does it mean?" she asked, kicking him gently under the table.

"It doesn't mean anything. Well, it probably does. It seems like _everything_ magical has two meanings. Even Merlin's got his two names. But Aithusa is the dragon's name. White dragon. He's beautiful, in a sort of terrifying way. Don't tell him I said that either. If you two ever meet. He'll probably he nicer to you than me just to spite me."

She waved a hand at him, apparently dismissing his dragon babble. "Merlin has two names?"

Arthur hesitated again, wondering if he should leave this to Merlin to explain. Arthur wasn't even sure that _he_ understood all of it. "Normal people call Merlin by Merlin," he said, sounding inarticulate even to his own ears. "But magic people—some of them, mostly Druids, I think—call him Emrys. It apparently means 'immortal'—see what I mean about everything have a double meaning? Of course, Merlin has to go and have a _triple _meaning—but I'm pretty sure that it doesn't mean that Merlin can't die."

She stared at him. "What on earth does any of that mean?"

He rubbed his face with his hands, dreadfully worn out. "I honestly have no idea. Morgana seemed to find it all terrifying."

He bit his lip as soon as the words left his mouth, horrified at himself. He and Merlin had agreed to leave what had happened where it had happened. And now, here he was, back in Camelot for only a few hours, already talking about Morgana…no one else was supposed to know. Even his wife. Especially his wife. He didn't want her to have to bear the burden of knowing what had happened there.

She caught the look on his face. "Morgana? It was Morgana? I had though Morgause for some reason. But…Morgana?"

He studied her expression. Guinevere was always so difficult to decipher when it came to Morgana. They had been such good friends once, and the betrayal had hurt Guinevere more deeply that almost anyone other than the Pendragon men. He didn't want her to know what had happened to Morgana.

"She was there, yes."

"It was her?"

Arthur groaned, wishing that he and Merlin had worked out exactly what they were going to say to explain this to people. Gwaine would have his fair share of questions as well, and he had just enough of the truth to ask the right questions. "She was there," he said guardedly.

She suddenly looked frightened. Nervous. As though she was full of dread for something that had already occurred. "Arthur, what happened?"

"Nothing," he said quietly, placing his hand over hers. "It doesn't matter. You're safe. Camelot is safe. It wasn't...none of it was what it seemed to be. But everything's going to be alright now."

She looked at him. "Oh, Arthur. You're not going to tell me, are you?"

Arthur shook his head, his heart heavy, wishing that he was heartless enough to lie about this. "No, I'm not."

"And Merlin won't either," she said, knowing.

"No, he won't."

"Just…tell me one thing. If you can. I don't know what you and Merlin have agreed upon, and I won't try to come between that—as if I _could,_ you two are so odd together—but try to tell me something."

"Yes?"

"Wherever you went, whoever you saw, whatever…whatever you did. What it was…what did you find there?"

Arthur leant back thoughtfully, throwing a glance at where Merlin was slumped in his chair, sleeping soundly. Arthur hoped that he wasn't dreaming.

"Ice," said Arthur, a tone of finality in his voice. "Ice and ash."

She looked as though she wanted to press him for a slightly less irritating answer, but his expression stopped her. "Wherever you were, Arthur," she said. "Whatever you did, it is warm and clean here. You've left your ice and ash behind."

Looking into her eyes, he almost believed it.

Looking into his, she saw the almost believing.

"I think I need to go to bed," she said, sighing heavily and rubbing her eyes. "Will you join me?"

Arthur just stared at her incredulously, and he must have looked absolutely pathetic, because she started laughing. "To sleep_,_ Arthur. To _sleep._ Honestly, you look like you'd have a hard time climbing a flight of steps without needing to take a break. I'm asking about _sleep."_

Despite everything that had happened, Arthur found himself blushing. She must have noticed, and she tried to smother her giggles.

"I'm sorry, Arthur," she said, her voice strained as she tried to look solemn. "You just looked…appalled. It was…well, you'd've laughed if you'd seen it."

"I don't think that I would have," he muttered.

"Are you coming?" she asked, standing.

He fully intended to say yes. Sleep sounded amazing, even if she _did_ spend the rest of his waking moments giggling at him. A bed and blankets and pillows…it sounded wonderful. He intended to say yes.

But his gaze fell on the sleeping sorcerer.

"Not just yet," he said softly.

Guinevere smiled and leant over his chair. She didn't look surprised. Kissing him softly on the brow, she said very quietly, "I'm glad that you're home."

"So am I," he said, and he heard his voice shake. For heaven's sake, he thought distantly. He was on the verge of tears. Again! He _did_ need sleep.

"Try to stay for a while this time, okay?" she ordered gently.

"I'm not going anywhere," he answered, looking into her eyes and meaning every word of it.

She just kept smiling and left, brushing his hair with her fingers as she moved away. His eyes followed her until she left the room. He heard her say something to the guards who had undoubtedly posted themselves outside of the council chamber, and the doors were heaved shut.

Arthur rearranged himself more comfortably in his chair, closing his eyes and wondering why on earth he had stayed. It wasn't as though he was going to wake Merlin. He wasn't _that_ cruel. Still, this was nice, he thought. He heard the crackling of the fire behind the table, remembering that damn fire room that Merlin had conjured so long ago, surrounding them and changing everything forever. He remembered how many times that the council chambers had been destroyed and remembered the times that Merlin had had a hand in it and wondered how many times that Merlin had _secretly_ had a hand in it. He sat in his chair, back at home, well fed, certainly well quenched, and was satisfied.

"Is she gone for the night, then?"

Arthur opened his eyes, somehow unsurprised. "Were you pretending to be asleep?"

Merlin looked at him from across the table, completely alert. "I didn't want her to yell at me. I was sure that you were in for it."

"Coward," Arthur remarked casually, reaching for a random jug and filling up his goblet. Taking his cue from Arthur, Merlin reached across the table with his own goblet. Arthur obliged.

"Well, what would you have me do?" asked Merlin, looking curiously down at the beverage.

Arthur took a deep swallow. "Stand for your king. You were eager enough to do it a few days ago."

Merlin took an experimental sip. He made a face, then took a larger swallow. Arthur laughed.

"Against Mordred?" said Merlin, coughing slightly. "Sure. Against Morgana? Why the hell not. Against _Guinevere?_ You will always and forever be on your own against her, my friend."

"Traitor," Arthur observed, swirling the liquid in his goblet. It was pretty. The purple on the silver of the…silver. Pretty. Was it always pretty? It was definitely tasty.

"Sticks and stones," said Merlin, draining his cup. Arthur poured him a refill and, indignant that _Merlin_ was outpacing him, gulped down the rest of his own.

"What about them?" asked Arthur, refilling his own goblet.

"They may break my bones, _Arthur,"_ said Merlin, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Ahhhhhhhh," said Arthur, understanding. Taking a celebratory sip, he finished the phrase. "But words will never harm you."

"Well," said Merlin. "_That_ depends on who's saying the words."

"So what you're saying," said Arthur. "Is that I probably shouldn't say that words will never hurt me when I'm taunting _you."_

"_You," _said Merlin, drinking deeply. "Should probably stick to the sticks and stones. You're good with sticks and stones. Besides, I think that its 'names will never harm me.'"

Arthur was vaguely offended. "Names _are_ words," he informed Merlin, draining half of his cup in an indigant swallow.

Merlin nodded wisely. "Words with capital letters."

"All words _can_ have capital letters," said Arthur, on a roll with and impressed by his wit.

"Places," said Merlin thoughtfully, over the rim over the rim of his goblet. "Places have capital letters."

"Titles," said Arthur importantly. "I'm a king with a capital _K."_ He tried to rise and strike a regal stance to emphasize his point, but he found that his chair was still pulled into the table, and his thighs hit the bottom of the table as he tried to stand. When the hell had that happened?"

Merlin snorted. "I think that you're drunk with a lowercase _d,"_ he said, trying to track Arthur with his gaze as Arthur struggled to sit normally once more.

"_I_ think that you're a pot calling a kettle black," said Arthur, reaching for his goblet and finding it mysteriously empty. When the hell had _that _happened?

"You wouldn't know a pot from a kettle if you saw one," said Merlin, sliding the jug at Arthur. "Do you even know where the kitchens are?"

"Of course I do," said Arthur, recovering his dignity as he refilled his cup.

"I would like to see you prove it," said Merlin, sounding very proud of his idea as he looked somewhere over Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur laughed. "Merlin. Merlin. _Merlin._ I don't think that either of us should be walking just now. Definitely no stairs."

Merlin snorted again. "Yeah, because you'd need to take a break halfway through."

"Shut up, Merlin. Merlin. Hey, Merlin! Merlin."

"Well, if you _don't_ want to go for a walk—or, in your case, _exploring—_what do you propose that we _do_ instead?"

Arthur looked around at their surroundings. The magnificent spread was still before them. Arthur had had his hearty meal, enjoying the flavors that were not vaguely woodsy and foods that were not a consistency that was…paste-ish. With the occasional bonus stem. From the look of Merlin's plate, however, it looked like he hadn't touched anything that Guinevere had not bullied him into.

Well, he'd touched his cup. That much was apparent.

It also solved the conundrum of what they ought to do that did not involve any coordinated movement. He knew what they should do.

"Eat, drink, and be merry," began Arthur, then stopped. It was such a famous phrase. How had he forgotten the rest? He must have been even wearier than he'd thought. There was no other explanation. How did the rest of it go?

"For tomorrow we may die?" Merlin supplied, laughing. "Ah, the timely wisdom of the great King Arthur."

"Well, what would you say?" asked Arthur tetchily, reaching across the table and snatching Merlin's goblet away. He refilled it and slid it back. Merlin picked it up smoothly before it even stopped moving. Arthur noted distantly that, what they lacked in mobility, they seemed to maintain in dexterity. Just as well.

"'A needle is…'" Merlin began. "The needle…a _stack_ of needles…something about a needle in a haystack."

"That sounds impractical," said Arthur doubtfully, abandoning his goblet and taking the jug as his own. They were practically on dregs anyway, Arthur realized with a jolt. When the _hell_ had that happened? Was there _magic_ afoot? He shrugged. Merlin was magic, and he was usually afoot. "Why would anyone want to do anything with a needle in a haystack? Wouldn't it just be easier to get a new needle? They're not _rare_ or anything…"

"'Lightning never strikes twice,'" suggested Merlin, snapping his fingers in Arthur's direction.

Arthur snorted. "With you, it does."

Merlin waved Arthur's comment away, undeterred. "'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush?'"

That one wasn't so bad.

"Maybe," said Arthur, giving it some careful thought. "But who's the bird in the hand? Guinevere?"

"Don't let her hear you say that," said Merlin, smiling.

Probably good advice.

"Merlin. Merlin. Hey, Merlin!"

"What?"

"Are _we_ the birds in the bush?"

"That would make sense," Merlin commented, nodding. "There _are_ two of us."

"'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,'" Arthur muttered. "What does that even mean?"

"I didn't really think it through," admitted Merlin. He looked down at his goblet, looking vaguely surprised. "What exactly am I drinking right now?"

"You need to eat something," Arthur informed him. "You're too skinny for this."

Merlin shook his head, looking drowsy. "I can't eat, you jinxed us," he told Arthur. "Two out of three is bad enough. I can't eat, because I'm already merry and I am not going to stop drinking, and I don't want to die tomorrow because tomorrow is only an hour from now."

"Is it?" asked Arthur, surprised. He looked around at the windows. There seemed to be a lot more of them than usual. He supposed he just hadn't ever taken a good count. That was understandable. He must have been paying closer attention during those council meetings than he'd thought.

"I have no idea," said Merlin breezily, handing over his cup. Arthur reached for a new pitcher and filled the cup. "I made that up."

"It _is_ dark," said Arthur, looking around for his own goblet. He seemed to have lost it. He shrugged and poured some of whatever they were drinking from the full pitcher into the one that he'd emptied. He was so resourceful, he thought, pleased with himself. "Very dark."

"Want me to light something on fire?" Merlin offered.

"In this state?" Arthur scoffed. "You're liable to light me on fire."

"I won't say that I've never been tempted."

"I'll drink to that," vowed Arthur solemnly. He then kept his word immediately.

"To me lighting you on fire?"

"If I'm going to be on _fire,"_ said Arthur, pointing the jug at Merlin. "I'd rather be _drunk_ for it."

"But wouldn't that make you more flammable?"

"Huh. I guess it would."

"I'll drink to that," said Merlin.

"We might as well drink to _something,"_ said Arthur. "Might give us more of an excuse tomorrow."

"Gwen's already mad at you anyway," said Merlin from within his cup.

"I don't want to drink to that," answered Arthur, although he drank anyway.

"To eating!" exclaimed Merlin, picking up an apple and beginning to toss it up and down in his hand. Arthur was amazed that he could manage it. He was also amazed that the man who looked as though he'd never eaten a day in his life was toasting to food.

"To drinking!" said Arthur, taking his own advice and feeling suddenly tired again.

"To being merry," countered Merlin.

"To dying," said Arthur, before amending himself. "To dying _tomorrow._ Or in an hour. What the hell time _is _it?"

"I'd rather not drink to dying, I think," said Merlin.

"To life, then," Arthur suggested instead. "To life. To freedom. To choice. To dragons. To falling off of dragons and living to tell the tale. To not telling the tale because we said we wouldn't tell the tale. _Not_ to Aithusa, because he kept dropping us and being mean to me. To acorns. To destiny!"

Merlin looked into the fire as Arthur momentarily stalled on topics for toasting. The flames reflected in Merlin's eyes, and Arthur shivered.

"To a destiny denied," said Merlin.

That was a good one.

"'To a destiny denied,'" echoed Arthur sleepily.

"Cheers," said Merlin, sloshing his goblet in Arthur's general direction, seeming to not want to risk taking the effort to lean.

"You're welcome," Arthur mumbled. Yawning, he put down the jug and rested his forearms on the table. He dropped his head down and rested his chin on his forearms and found that he didn't want to drink to anything anymore. He wanted to sleep, and he thought that he might have even drunk to enough that he might not dream. That would be good.

He didn't think that it would take long for sleep to take him.

He didn't think that it would take long for sleep to take him and, unlike most of the thoughts that he came up with when he was in such a state, it turned out to be accurate. The last thing that he saw before his eyelids drooped all the way was Merlin, leaning back in his chair, staring into the fire with a strangely becoming expression of deep thought. Picking up his apple, Merlin paused for a moment, contemplating.

Then, smiling so slightly that Arthur might not have realized it if he had not known Merlin so well, Merlin put his goblet down with considerably more grace than how Arthur had abandoned his trusty jug and rolled the apple in his hand. Merlin's face was rosy in the firelight. There was a tiny smudge of dirt on his temple, almost concealed by his black hair and somehow missed in the scrubbing. His cheek was marred by a long cut, just beginning to heal. He smiled. The fire crackled. The wine was cold.

The apple was red.

Merlin took a bite.

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**The End! **

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**Thank you for reading! I was going to add an epilogue, but I don't know that the one that I have in mind would be particularly well-received. **

**I'd love some reviews! **


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